


Never Talk to Strangers

by mambo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Big Bang Challenge, Cap!Steve Modern!Bucky, Graduate School, M/M, Modern! Bucky Cap!Steve, Shrunkyclunks, Slow Burn, Stucky Big Bang 2016, cap!steve - Freeform, modern!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never Talk to Strangers: or; How a Forgotten Childhood Lesson Led Bucky Barnes to Appreciate Charlie Chaplin, Befriend an A.I., Slip on Soap Bubbles, Be Mistaken for a Succubus, and Try to Woo a Superhero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Talk to Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Part of me can't even believe that I'm posting this. I started working on this months ago when [softbrobucky](softbrobucky.tumblr.com) prompted me on Tumblr with "We’re on the bus and I’m really not trying to take up your space I’m sorry I just have rlly rlly long legs.” The ficlet I wrote for that prompt became the first scene of this fic, and I've been working on it since, despite personal and family health drama. I'm excited that I finished, and I'm excited to share it with you.
> 
> I want to thank my artists: [cottonwoolballs](cottonwoolballs.tumblr.com), [lucidnancyboy](lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com), and [wizardmemes](wizardmemes.tumblr.com). You guys have done/are doing incredible things, and I'm so excited and thankful!
> 
> I also need to thank my beta readers [burymeinsurprise](burymeinsurprise.tumblr.com) and [passthecocaine](passthecocaine.tumblr.com), who were very patient with me and did a great job.
> 
> Finally, I want to thank the people who cheered me on while I was sick this summer. More than anything else that I've written before, this fic felt like a team effort. I'd specifically like to thank [biblionerd07](biblionerd07.tumblr.com), whose humor, sage advice, and general kindness has been an inspiration. Big thanks to her, and to everyone else who has supported me through this tough summer. I'm glad you guys get to finally see the finished product!
> 
> Sorry for rambling, but I really couldn't have done this one alone.
> 
> For a list of potential triggers, please read the end notes.

**Part I.**

"Steve and Bucky" by [cottonwoolballs](http://66.media.tumblr.com/43f05b2cacf31d1b7b049039623845a9/tumblr_oddmwb28z81vfix7to3_1280.png).

“Hi,” says the gorgeous tall man who just got on the bus. “Mind if I?” he asks, gesturing to the empty window seat next to Bucky.

“Here, lemme,” Bucky says, scooting over to let the guy sit on the aisle.

“Thanks,” he says, then adds, “Full bus.”

Bucky hums in agreement and goes back to his paperback. He’d usually at least try to make some small talk, but given the hairstyle and khakis, Bucky isn’t sure that this guy won’t try to convert him to some apocalyptic sect of Christianity. Though, Bucky muses, the guy is more likely a well-meaning but lost tourist, but it’s less romantic to think of him like that. Either way, he oozes Iowa-born heterosexuality.

A few minutes pass, and Bucky feels increasingly uncomfortable. The reason? The fidgeting. The guy next to him keeps moving around, sighing, and slowly inching into Bucky’s space. Bucky took Intro to Gender Studies; he knows about Manspreading. But while most dudes seem to be pretty oblivious to their bodies, this guy seems like a baby gazelle, completely unsure of where his legs are or what they’re doing. He’s wiggling around in a way that doesn’t make Bucky angry — just a little concerned. It isn’t until the guy’s thigh is pressed up against Bucky’s that Bucky clears his throat.

And then he clears his throat again, this time a little louder.

The guy just sighs again, looking forlornly at the back of the seat in front of him. He’s not even on a phone or anything, just doing nothing besides looking sad and uncomfortable.

“Hey, uh,” Bucky says. The guy nearly jumps out of his skin, leg moving in the process, making Bucky sort of unsure how to continue.

“Everything alright?” the guy asks, looking… actually _concerned_. He’s looking at Bucky with these sad baby blues, sort of intense, but uniquely sweet.

“Oh, your leg was just, uh, touchin’ mine? ‘Is not a big deal, but.”

He looks like he’s going to _cry_. “I’m sorry,” he says, actually apologetic. He looks down at his legs, confused, like they’ve personally insulted him. “Sometimes it’s hard to keep track of…” He clears his throat, looking back up. “I noticed your book,” he says, glancing down at the paperback Bucky’s holding. “ _Torment_? I read _Better Angel_ a while back. Is that another book by Forman Brown?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah, they republished _Better Angel_ under this name in the fifties. I like _Better Angel_ better, though. Emphasizes the fact that this is, like, the first not-tragic gay love story.”

The guy chuckles, low. He glances back down, and Bucky notices how long his eyelashes are. He’s just got really gorgeous eyes, and Bucky is not afraid to say so. In his head. Not out loud.

“I don’t think I’ve seen somebody reading _Better Angel_ since…” He pauses, eyes widening a little before he clears his throat. “In a while,” he ends. “Where’d you hear about it?”

“I’m in a Queer Literature of the Twentieth Century class at NYU.”

The guy’s eyes seem to bug out of his head. “That’s a class?” he asks.

Feeling suddenly defensive, Bucky nods. “Yeah,” he says, “Completely full this semester.”

“That’s…” The guy trails off, huffs a breath. “That’s _amazing_ ,” he says, quietly, looking down. “Completely amazing.”

“It’s uh, a great class,” Bucky says slowly, a little confused about why this guy seems so emotional about a 400-level English course.

“Would they let someone who isn’t a student take it?” he asks.

“Honestly? I dunno. They let James Franco take a film class, so there’s a chance.”

“James…?” he starts.

“Mediocre actor. He was in the _Spider-Man_ movies?” Bucky tries. This guy seems normal enough to have watched _Spider-Man_ ; everyone’s seen _Spider-Man_! (Except for maybe the real Spider-Man, who Bucky likes to think would be mildly offended at the plot of _Spider-Man 3_.)

The guy smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry, I know I sound a little strange.”

Bucky shrugs. “I go to NYU; I’ve seen stranger.” He pauses. “Are you from around here?” he asks.

“That’s a seventy year-long story.” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

Bucky nods. “Guessed that from the khakis.”

“There’s something wrong with them?” the guy asks, looking down at his pants.

“Nothin’ _wrong_ , but it’s probably been a while since anybody’s worn khakis in Williamsburg without tryin’ to be ironic.”

“Oh!” he says, almost excited. “Hipsters, right?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, hipsters.”

“Different than it used to be.”

Bucky snorts. “You sound like my bubbe.”

“She lived in Williamsburg?”

“Flatbush. Her ma was Polish and dad was Irish. Seemed like a nice compromise.”

The guy laughs. “I remember,” he starts, then stops, abrupt. He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

They fall into an awkward silence. Bucky doesn’t start reading again; he doesn’t have enough time left before his stop to get back into it. Instead he unzips his backpack and slips the book inside.

“Sorry,” the guy says, and Bucky looks up, “For interrupting you.”

“No big deal,” Bucky says. The guy smiles — again, it’s a little sad, and still doesn’t quite reach his eyes — before he turns back to the front. He looks so weird and lonely and nerdy that Bucky girds his loins and asks, “Hey, do you know anybody ‘round here?”

“Huh?” the guy asks, turning to look at Bucky.

Bucky, in turn, glances away. “Dunno. You said you were newish in town.”

“Oh, I don’t. Not really. A few people, but they’re mostly work friends.” He pauses, then adds, “Associates.”

“Would you wanna hang sometime? We can talk queer literature of the twentieth century, if you wanna live vicariously.”

The way that the guy lights up is almost _obscene_. He was already tall, but he looks like he grew a foot in about four seconds. His wide eyes sparkle, and his hopeful smile is small, but also looks _happy_. Happier than he’s been this entire conversation. “Yeah?” he asks quiet, but excited. “That’d be just great.”

Bucky smiles, reaches into his backpack and pulls out a piece of scrap paper and a pen. (He’s not too organized, but it works out during moments like these.) He jots down his name and phone number and hands them over. “Text or call or whatever.”

The guy reads the little scrap like he’s really _reading_ it, like it’s something more than a number scribbled on a piece of paper. “Bucky?” he asks, looking up.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s dorky, it’s weird, it’s—“

“Great,” he interrupts. “It’s a swell name.” Bucky might blush a little. Just a little. “I’m Steve.”

“Nice to meet ya,” Bucky says, “But I gotta scoot. Stop’s comin’ up.”

“Sure,” Steve says, standing up and letting Bucky slide by. Bucky turns around to see Steve looking at him, that same happy smile on his face, the paper with Bucky’s phone number clutched in his hand. “I’ll text you,” he says.

“You better,” Bucky responds. “Don’t give my number to just anybody.”

Steve looks down, almost bashful. “I’ll be careful with it.”

Bucky wants to say something, but the bus is stopping and he’s gotta get off. “You better,” he repeats, smiling as he gets off the bus. He looks up after he gets off and sees Steve looking down at him from the window. Bucky waves, and Steve waves back a little sheepishly, and Bucky thinks that maybe Steve isn’t a member of an apocalyptic Christian sect. Maybe he’s just an awkward dude who needs a friend.

And maybe, Bucky thinks, he could be that friend.

**…**

When Bucky gets home he pulls a Diet Coke out of the fridge, drops his backpack on the floor, and falls onto the couch. It was a long day of classes and work, and he finds himself dozing off before he can even turn the TV on.

He wakes up a few hours later, rubbing at his dry eyes, smoothing down his short hair, and glancing towards the window — it’s dark out. He’s been trying for ages to regulate his sleep schedule after a month of graveyard shifts at the NYU Writing Center, and an evening nap won’t help things along. “Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up and grabbing his backpack off the floor to unearth his phone. After a few moments of groping around his bag, Bucky finds his phone, lights up the screen and sees that it’s almost nine o’clock — a four hour nap. He groans.

Then, his eyes drift down to his notifications. The first one is a text from an unknown number, received just a few minutes before he woke up. Ignoring the pile-up of school emails he’s gotten and a Facebook message from Darcy, he opens up the message from the unknown number.

 

**(212) 555-9071**

**March 30**

**8:47 PM**

Dear Bucky,

This is Steve from the bus earlier. I hope it is alright that I am texting you. If you were still interested, I would like to take you up on your offer to get coffee. Feel free to text or call me whenever! I look forward to hearing from you!

Best,

Steve

 

"Bucky Receiving Steve's First Text" by [cottonwoolballs](http://68.media.tumblr.com/5833eb38550976bbb79a3cb12ddf6167/tumblr_oddmwb28z81vfix7to2_1280.png).

"Steve Drafting His Text" by [cottonwoolballs](http://66.media.tumblr.com/c35a3f99546078d7325d7d47c78cb9ab/tumblr_oddmwb28z81vfix7to1_1280.png).

Bucky can’t help but snort. The last time he got a text that formal it was his grandma asking if Bucky wanted her to email or snail mail him the pictures of Noodles the cat sitting on the cat window seat he’d sent her for her birthday. (Bucky chose email and the pictures of chunky, orange Noodles the cat snoozing with the sun setting behind him are actually gorgeous and have been the backgrounds on his various electronics since.) For a moment, Bucky entertains the thought that Steve hasn’t actually sent a text before; there are still people who are new to texting, right? But he shakes his head, laughing. It’s not 2005, Steve is an attractive dude, and he must just write formal texts the first time he texts someone because he thinks it’s gentlemanly or something arcane like that.

So Bucky programs Steve’s number into his phone and texts him back.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**March 30**

**9:00 PM**

Hi Steve from the bus! This is Bucky from the window seat. Would the day after tomorrow work for you? There’s a coffeeshop called the Pigeon Hole (bad name, good coffee) next to my bus stop. Would 4 work?

 

After he sends it, Bucky flips through his email — nothing pressing —, responds to Darcy’s message with a photo of an angry otter, and shoves his phone in his pocket before hauling himself off the couch. He heads to his kitchenette, opens the freezer door and pulls out a frozen lasagna. (It’s either that or eggs for the fifth night in a row, and Bucky is absurdly fearful that he’s going to have a baby chick hatch in his stomach at some point.) By the time he gets it out and sets his oven, he feels his phone buzz in his back pocket.

 

**Steve from the Bus**

**March 30**

**9:14 PM**

Thank you for getting back to me so quickly! Texting is great that way. The Pigeon Hole at four the day after tomorrow works for me. See you then. Thanks Bucky!

 

Okay, maybe Steve isn’t a gentleman, just a dork. Still, Bucky can’t help but smile as he responds.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**March 30**

**9:15 PM**

Can’t wait. See you then.

 

**…**

Bucky hops off the bus at 4:04. He had hoped he could get there on time, or maybe even _early_ , but right at the end of his Writing Center shift a tear-stained first-year came in with this sob story about a professor ripping them apart, and could Bucky please _please_ look at their paper before he has to go meet with the professor again? Which, of course Bucky would. There is almost nothing Bucky likes more than to help students prove asshole academics wrong about them. (Not that _all_ academics are assholes, but there seems to be a disproportionate amount of assholes in the field.) Sure, he’s four minutes late, but he did his good deed for the day, and the kid’s paper is _excellent_.

So Bucky kind of tumbles into the Pigeon Hole, disheveled. The place is pleasantly full, with some movement and white noise. He glances around and sees Steve alone in a high-backed blue padded chair at a table next to the window. He’s got one of the Pigeon Hole’s oversize coffee cups between his hands. He doesn’t see Bucky enter — he’s looking out the window. Bucky takes a breath and heads to Steve, getting his attention as he drops his backpack on the chair across the table from Steve’s.

“Hey,” Bucky says, kind of breathless.

“Hi,” Steve responds. A series of expressions pass through his — frankly, angelic — features. First, his eyes widen, looking Bucky up and down like he doesn’t believe that he really showed. But then his lips shift from the little ‘o’ they’ve been pressed into and spread. He smiles, his eyes bright and, for lack of a better term, sparkling. Even his posture changes: he sits straighter, looks more attentive. Maybe there was something about the bus that made it difficult to see Steve full on, but in the soft lighting of the coffee shop, Steve seems young and beautiful.

Maybe because Steve’s attractive sincerity dawns on Bucky so suddenly, he looks over to the counter just to shield himself from the shine. “I’ve gotta go grab somethin’ caffeinated or I’m gonna pass out on ya,” Bucky says. What he doesn’t add is, “I’m gonna pass out from the sheer wattage of your smile.”

But he kind of wants to. Maybe it would make Steve blush.

“I got the, uh…” Steve glances down at his cup. “Apple cinnamon latte? It’s good.”

Bucky nods. “Note taken,” he says, though subsequently ignores it. The extra $2.50 that Bucky would spend on the latte versus a small black coffee builds up over time. He could buy some vegetables with that extra $2.50. Over time, he could maybe afford a microwave that works.

It takes him a few minutes to get to the front of the line, then a few more to order his drink and flirt with the barista — Bucky has a weakness for undercuts, so sue him — and to then get the drink (and the barista’s number). By the time Bucky makes it back to Steve, Steve’s cup is resting empty on the table. Steve is fidgeting like he was on the bus, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his limbs, and he’s got a little unhappy frown on. Bucky suddenly feels like a huge asshole taking that time to flirt. Not that this is a date, but it was probably rude to keep Steve waiting to flirt with someone else.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, sitting down.

“Huh?” Steve asks, almost jumping at Bucky’s arrival.

“Took a while. Sorry to make you wait.”

Steve gives a little shake of his head. “No!” he starts, “Don’t worry about it — wasn’t that long.”

Bucky smiles, takes a sip of his coffee. He shudders a little as it goes down.

“Is your drink okay?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods, setting his cup down. “Black coffee,” he says with a little grimace. “Only gets so good.”

Steve glances down at the cup, then back up to Bucky. “Alright,” he responds, sounding almost concerned. “How was your day?” he asks.

“Pretty good. Friday’s the one day a week I don’t work. Actually, I only work the job I _like_ , so it feels less like work.”

“You have two jobs?” Steve asks.

“Three, technically, if you count the freelance copy-editin’ I do online.”

“What else do you do?” Steve asks.

“I work at the campus Writing Center, editin’ people’s papers, workin’ on citations, etcetera. That’s the job I actually like, but it’s mostly a tuition waiver, which is — don’t get me wrong — really fantastic, but I also need more than $80 a week for food and rent. So I also bartend at this hoity toity restaurant that my ma’s cousin’s husband runs, which is actually, like, a really solid gig, but it’s exhaustin’, right? It’s sorta supposed to be like a forties supper club feel with overpriced steaks, so we get a lot of, like, power lunches where guys want grey goose martinis and send them back seven times because the size of the olive is wrong.”

“Jeez,” Steve says.

“Pays the bills, but older, recently divorced women like to pinch my ass.” Steve raises an eyebrow. “Shut up Steve, oh my God, why would I make that up? Those gel nails hurt on my caboose.”

“Do they tip well?” Steve asks with a sly sort of grin, one Bucky hasn’t seen on him before, but would very much like to see on him again.

Bucky grins right back. “How do you think I can afford this overpriced coffee?” Bucky asks.

Steve chuckles. “So, you’re also a student?” he asks.

Bucky nods. “I’m gettin’ a masters in Comparative Literature. I graduate this spring.”

“Comparative literature?” Steve asks, brow furrowing.

“Yeah, and I barely know what it means, so don’t ask.” Steve chuckles. “Honestly, it was just a way to kill a couple more years until I have to figure out what it is I actually want to do and join the workforce.”

“And have you figured it out? What you want to do?”

Bucky grimaces. “I got three more months.” He expects Steve to laugh, but when he looks up, Steve has this expression of actual worry, eyes almost tender.

“You’ll figure something out,” he says. Bucky believes him.

Bucky coughs a little, feeling awkward. “Yeah, or I can just hold off a little longer, grab a PhD, and be the most highly educated bartender in the city.” Steve purses his lips, looking _really_ concerned now, which makes Bucky laugh. “Sorry, sorry,” Bucky says in response to Steve’s confused face. “That was a joke. Jesus, the thought of being a professor terrifies me. Besides, it’s too late to apply now.” Steve nods along slowly, and Bucky is pretty sure he’s not actually following Bucky’s rambling. He changes the subject. “So,” he starts, “What do you do?”

“Oh,” Steve says, “I, um, was discharged about seven months ago, I guess.” He doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes, and he shifts around, uncomfortable. “Haven’t really gotten back until last week.” Steve notices Bucky’s expression and adds, “I wasn’t really hospitalized or anything. Just spent some time out of the city getting used to… things.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky responds, nodding. “Where were you deployed?”

“That’s, uh, classified,” Steve says quietly, fiddling with a loose string on the edge of his shirt.

Oh shit. This guy isn’t a Mormon — he’s a fucking killing machine. “So you’re James Bond?” Bucky asks, feigning lightness while quickly running through any and all instances where he may’ve broken the law.

He has an outstanding parking ticket from that time he visited Darcy in New Mexico last year.

They wouldn’t send a mercenary all the way to New York for that, would they?

“Oh, um, I don’t know him,” Steve says, looking down again, sheepish.

Then again, maybe Steve is a mercenary from North Korea or something. American’s don’t not know who James Bond is.

“James Bond, the spy? The movie franchise that’s been around since the Cold War?”

“I haven’t watched many movies lately,” Steve says miserably, looking down at his empty cup, shoulders slumping in something that seems almost like defeat.

Even if he’s a foreign mercenary, hellbent on punishing Bucky on his outstanding speeding tickets, he’s kind of adorable. Cheer up, beefy mercenary. Cheer up.

“Honestly, you’re not missing too much. I just know them because my stepdad would watch TV marathons of Bond movies all the time. He practically had ‘em memorized.” He pauses. “So, now that you’re discharged are you up to anythin’?” He winces a little. That was the dumbest way he could have possibly phrased it. Except if, maybe, he asked if Steve were up to _no good_. Which, if he truly is a mercenary, would probably be true.

“Not officially,” Steve says. “There’s a security organization that I guess I’m part of, but I’m not so sure I want to keep being violent for a living.”

“Versus being violent for pleasure?” Another stupid statement. Another slight wince.

But Steve laughs. “Exactly!”

Bucky is… Not even going to ask. He just hopes Steve will be recruited to the side of good, or whatever. Not end up, like, working for one of those assholes who’s always trying to kill Tony Stark and ends up clogging up New York traffic.

“Oh!” Bucky says, changing the subject tactfully. “I brought you somethin’.” He leans down and unzips his backpack. He rifles through it for a few seconds until he finds what he wants. When he has it, he sits back up and smooths the paper out a few times against his leg before he passes it to Steve. “This is the syllabus for that class I’m in,” he explains as Steve reaches out for it.

After a few seconds scanning the paper, Steve sets it back on the table and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small blue notebook and a nubby little pencil. Bucky doesn’t want to know if that pencil has ever stuck Steve in the ass. Actually, he _really_ wants to know. “Mind if I take some notes?” he asks.

“No, but, uh, that’s a copy, so you can keep it. If that’d be easier. Either way, no pressure.”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking back down at the sheet with wide eyes. He hesitates a moment before setting down his notebook and gingerly picking the syllabus up again. His grip is so gentle, like he’s holding a leaf of the Gutenberg Bible and not a poorly photocopied syllabus that’s already pretty crumpled from a day and a half of being stored in Bucky’s messy backpack. But the way Steve looks at it, like it might be a real gift, not just some afterthought, makes Bucky wish he’d have put it in a folder or something. Took care of it a little more. “Thank you, Bucky,” Steve says. “I’ll really enjoy reading these.” His eyes are wide and earnest, and part of Bucky is sure that in this moment, Steve thinks more highly of him than anyone else on the planet.

So Bucky fucks it all up by saying, “Except almost everyone dies.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“Well, there’s that trope where gay guys or lesbians or trans people can’t have a happy ending, so they end up dead.”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking back down at the list, ashen.

“I want to write a happy ending,” Bucky finds himself saying, then immediately goes pink. But Steve looks up with interest, so Bucky pulls through his embarrassment and says, “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like I _expect_ anythin’ or whatever, but uh, I like to write? And I have this fancy-ass master’s degree — or whatever — so maybe one day?” Bucky ducks his head a little. He doesn’t typically admit this shit to anybody. Going around saying you’re a wannabe author makes you look like a complete douche, and makes you look like an even bigger asshole when things don’t work out.

But then Steve straightens up and smiles. “That’d be swell,” he says. “Do you have something you’re working on now?”

Bucky shrugs. “Sorta,” he says. “Never not really workin’ on somethin’ or another, y’know?”

“Yes,” Steve responds, surprising Bucky a little. “I’m an artist,” he adds, almost shy, cheeks tinged with pink.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods. “ A little. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything more than a doodle, but I went to school for it, for a little while.” There’s something a little sad in his eyes as he says it, and his head moves slightly downward. Bucky realizes just how much Steve wears his emotions on his sleeve — he’s obvious. It’s not hard to figure out what Steve is feeling, even if Bucky doesn’t know why Steve feels that way. Not for the first time, Bucky thinks that Steve seems somehow displaced, far away from Bucky for reasons he can’t quite decipher. Maybe it was his time in the military. He’ll have to call Sam and ask — sister’s ex-boyfriend and all-around cool dude. He just posted on his Facebook about how he’s working as a VA counselor down in DC, so maybe he’d be willing to talk to Bucky about veterans.

“What kind of art do you make? I mean, in an ideal world where you have both the money and the time?” Bucky asks, reaching for his neglected cup of coffee. He hadn’t even realized he’d been ignoring it.

Steve chuckles, looking up again. “In an ideal world I’d paint.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “Got any pictures I could look at?”

Like a sudden storm, Steve’s face darkens. His eyebrows furrow, his jaw sets. “I don’t have them anymore. Anything.” Bucky takes a sip of coffee, waiting for Steve to continue but he doesn’t.

“Was there a fire?” Bucky asks, grasping at straws.

Steve sighs. “Sort of,” he says, shaking his head, which is admittedly sending Bucky some mixed signals.

There’s an awkward moment that Bucky tries to fill by drinking the rest of his coffee. Steve just looks at the table with furred brows, seeming a little dazed.

“So,” Bucky starts. “See anythin’ good on TV lately?”

Steve looks up and blinks a few times, still seemingly in thought. But then, like the sun peeking through the clouds on a rainy day, or a dog when their owner comes out of the bathroom after taking a particularly long dump, or a kid waking up to their parents tiredly telling them it’s a snow day, Steve’s mouth blooms into a smile, sweet and excited. “Yeah!” he says. “I was watching the TV last night and found this great channel.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, unable to keep himself from smiling at Steve’s enthusiasm.

Steve nods. “Yeah, they play classic movies.”

“Turner Classic Movies?” Bucky asks, almost hoping that Steve didn’t _just_ discover its existence. Bucky has distinct memories of rolling around on the floor while his bubbe watched _Casablanca_.

Steve nods again, a little quicker. “Yes, that’s it. Have you heard of it?” he asks.

Bucky nods, his own smile fading just a little. There’s just something a little odd about this, is all. Something about Steve seems disconnected, off. There’s nothing _wrong_ with him — or at least nothing Bucky can tell after their two conversations — but Bucky senses something off. Square peg, round hole. Steve is just trying to squeeze himself into a place he’s unsure of, a place he just doesn’t understand entirely.

But despite that, Bucky is finding that he doesn’t really care. He really doesn’t! Because that smile, that excited, sunshine smile that lit up Steve’s undeniably beautiful features, puts Bucky at ease. It makes him want to know Steve, and to understand where he’s coming from. And maybe to help him belong, if that’s what Steve wants.

Because Bucky, God help him, would like to see Steve smile like that again.

“Honestly, I watch it all the time.”

“Did you watch last night?” Steve asks.

“Nah, had a late shift.”

“They played some Chaplin movies — _Modern Times_ and _The Great Dictator_. Have you seen them?” Steve asks.

“Just _Modern Times_ ,” Bucky responds. “But it’s a helluva movie.”

Steve nods, ducking his head a little. “Hadn’t seen either in ages,” he admits, a little quiet. “Forgot just how much I liked them. He had a certain sense of humor that was _thoughtful_. Don’t think anyone can compare.”

“That your favorite movie then? _Modern Times_?”

“No,” Steve says. “There are a lot that I used to watch… Older movies, with my ma. _Freaks_ , _The 39 Steps_ , _Wizard of Oz_.”

“Flyin’ monkeys and all?”

Steve chuckles, nodding. “Even the flying monkeys. But, uh, my favorite is _Rebecca_. And the Disney originals, too: _Snow White_ , _Fantasia._ I remember…” he trails off.

“So, you’re tellin’ me that you pretty much like anythin’ that came out before World War II,” Bucky says, smiling.

Steve shrugs, cheeks going a little pink. “Sort of,” he admits.

“No shame in that. My favorite’s _Singin’ in the Rain_.”

“Oh, I don’t, um.”

“Really? Steve, if you like _The Wizard of Oz_ , you’re gonna love _Singin’ in the Rain_! Tap dancing’, love, dream ballet…” He pauses, then adds, “We’ll have to watch it sometime.”

And there’s that smile again. The wattage could probably power the entire borough. “That would be great.”

Does he knows what he does with that smile? How it’s a weapon in and of itself?

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Steve asks. “Because if you’re free, maybe…”

“I’m not free, actually,” Bucky says. Steve’s smile loses some of that horsepower.

“Oh, sorry. Got a little ahead of myself.” He looks down with his smile, which is now sad. It’s just as powerful sad as it is happy. That’s very very dangerous.

“No, I’d love to, believe me, I would. It’s just that my advisor hosts movie nights every other Friday on campus, and they’re not the most popular Friday night activity around, so I always try to go.”

“That sounds like fun.”

Bucky shrugs. “They’re always movies from the communist bloc, so they’re almost always sad as hell.”

“The Soviet Union? Like _Battleship Potemkin_?”

“Yeah!” Bucky says, maybe a little too enthused, a little too loud. Steve chuckles, and Bucky lowers his voice. “You’ve seen _Potemkin_?”

Steve nods. “And a few other silent films from the era: _Mother_ , _Keno Eye_.”

Bucky breaths out, leaning back on his chair. He hadn’t realized how much he had been leaning forward. “You keep surprisin’ me,” Bucky admits, maybe a little too honest.

Steve ducks his head again. Bucky thinks that it’s maybe a habit. “So what’s the movie you’re watching?”

“It’s called _The Witness_ ,” Bucky says. “It’s a Hungarian comedy from the sixties. It’s actually one of my favorites. It’s about corrupt government officials and the inefficiency of the system.”

“That sounds like fun,” Steve says with sad eyes.

“The screening’s open to the public. If that’d be somethin’ you’re interested in. I mean, I don’t know what you’re doin’ later, so.”

Steve smiles, something impish in his grin. “Bucky, I asked you to do something less than two minutes ago.”

“So is that your asshole way of sayin’ that you _would_ be interested?” Bucky asks.

Steve grins. “Yeah,” he says, “It is.”

**…**

They have some time to kill before the movie, and Steve suggests they take a walk to the subway, then grab dinner near the screening. Bucky suggests his favorite campus Thai spot, and while he’s not excited to spend another $11.00 on dinner, he _is_ kind of thrilled that he’s spending the evening with Steve.

“What should I order?” Steve asks, looking at the menu. The place is small with counter service, and there’s a short line ahead of them.

“Uh, what Thai food do you generally like?” Bucky responds, trying to calculate what the tax on chicken Pad Thai is as compared to tofu.

“Actually, I’ve never had Thai before,” Steve says. Bucky looks over and Steve gives him this small, embarrassed smile.

Bucky grins. “Well,” he says, “Get ready for the greatest pleasure your taste buds have ever known.” Bucky lists out some of his favorite dishes, describes what things taste like the best he can. He gets kind of excited, actually, and by the time they get to the front of the line Bucky must have sung the praises of half the menu. “Don’t know how you’ll decide,” he says.

“Why don’t you order first while I pick?” Steve says, gesturing to Bucky to step in front of him. Bucky shrugs and does so, opting for the chicken Pad Thai but justifying it by only getting a glass of water. But before Bucky can get the total, Steve starts ordering.

And he orders a _lot_.

Like, half the menu.

Bucky nearly breaks out in a cold sweat. He’s short on cash right now and Steve _just keeps ordering_. Bucky hadn’t realized that he would be paying for Steve, let alone paying for enough leftovers to last Steve a month.

Bucky is still trying to figure out a casual way to ask Steve if he could drop an appetizer (or four) when Steve pulls out his wallet.

And out of his wallet he pulls a fucking Visa Black Card. Both Bucky’s and the cashier’s eyes widen. Steve, however, is very calm as he takes his card and tucks it back into his leather wallet and signs the receipt. Bucky peeks over his shoulder and sees that he leaves a $50 tip on a $100 check.

Bucky is slightly in shock as they head to a rickety table in the dining room, Steve holding their little plastic number placard. They each take a seat, and Bucky kind of word vomits. “I’ve never seen a Black Card before.” He swallows, wincing. “Sorry, that was… I mean, this place is probably a little less fancy than you’re used to.”

Steve furrows his brow. “But you said you like it here.”

“I do!” Bucky exclaims. “It’s just, uh, I don’t think people with Visa Black Cards hang out in here. Or with me.”

“The credit card is from work,” Steve says, and Bucky wonders _what the ever-loving fuck_ Steve does for a living. No normal person get a Visa Black Card from working a security detail. “And I like you,” Steve starts, glancing down, then adds, “And the food smells delicious.”

Bucky smiles. “That why you ordered half the menu?”

Steve smiles back. “I eat a lot. And everything I ordered you said you liked, so I thought we could share.”

Bucky’s smile drops. “Oh,” he says, reaching back and pulling his battered wallet from his pocket. “I can’t give you that much right now, but I get paid—“

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts, “Buck, don’t worry about it. I’ve got this one.”

Cheeks going red, Bucky mumbles a thank you.

“I ordered without even asking; I should’ve checked with you first. But everything sounded good and I thought it would be fun if we could both have some of everything.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says as a tray-laden server approaches their table. “It is.”

**…**

Steve does eat an _impressive_ amount. Frankly, Bucky doesn’t know how he fits all that food into that tiny stomach. If Bucky ate that much he’d have one hell of a food baby; yet, Steve manages to keep his waist so trim. (Life is deeply, deeply unfair.)

And the movie is a success as well. Steve actually listens to the lecture Bucky’s professor gives before the screening — a far cry from the majority of the students who only showed up for some extra credit — and laughs during the movie, real belly laughs that remind Bucky of why he likes the movie in the first place.

But the best thing, the absolute _best_ thing of the night, is when Professor Vlasenko gets up to do a post-movie question and answer session, and Steve raises his hand and asks a thoughtful question about censorship in the comedic genre. Professor Vlasenko looks like she may cry, having someone who isn’t even one of her students not only attend her screening, but be genuinely interested. When the screening and the post-film Q&A finish up, Bucky is honestly pretty disappointed that the night is ending.

“Are you taking the train?” Steve asks as he stands up.

“Eventually, but I’m gonna help clean up.”

“I can help, if you’d like,” Steve offers.

“Nah. ‘Cleaning up’ really means that we just gossip about the other people in my cohort.” Steve’s face falls a little. “But I had a lot of fun. Tonight.” Bucky clears his throat. “With you.”

“Me too,” Steve says with a small smile.

“So you can text me whenever. If you, y’know, wanna hang out again.”

The room has emptied, leaving Bucky and Steve, Professor Vlaensko, and an undergrad desperately trying to convince Professor Vlasenko to give him some undeserved extra credit. It’s probably time for Steve to head out. “I’ll text you soon,” he promises.

“Cool,” Bucky says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Get home safe,” he adds, then almost winces - Steve is a grown-ass man beneath those khakis. He probably doesn’t appreciate the sentiment.

“You too,” Steve says. He hesitates a moment, glancing down before saying, “Would you let me know when you get home? Text me or something?”

Something clenches in Bucky’s chest as he looks at the sweet blush on Steve’s sharp cheekbones. He can’t remember the last time someone wanted to know if Bucky made it home okay.

So, fuck. He has an itty bitty crush on Steve. Who is still a weirdo. But a really kind weirdo with incredible cheekbones.

“I will,” Bucky promises.

“Alright,” Steve responds, smiling. “Night.”

“Night,” Bucky echoes as Steve backs away.

Bucky watches him leave like a complete dope.

“He your boyfriend?” Professor Vlasenko calls from the front of the room as the undergrad slinks away disappointed.

“Professor,” Bucky whines, turning around to face her. “ _Please_.”

“So that’s a no?” she asks. Bucky groans. “Well you should grab that — brains and beauty. The full package. Probably with a good—“

“Remember how I was one of the students the administration interviewed when they made your tenure decision? You really wanna treat me this way?”

Professor Vlasenko pauses, thoughtful. “Do you know how many 100-level students come into my office asking for passing grades with obviously false stories about lost aunts? Your love life is much more interesting.”

“Good point,” Bucky says, then starts, “So his name is Steve…”

**…**

**Bucky Barnes**

**April 2**

**12:03 AM**

Made it back ok!

 

**Steve from the Bus**

**April 2**

**12:05 AM**

Good to hear.

 

**12:06 AM**

:)

 

**…**

The next day Bucky wakes up to another text from Steve: _No pressure if you are busy today, but I read about an art fair near Coney Island, if you would be interested in going._

It takes Bucky about four seconds to say yes.

**…**

“Artisan pickles,” Steve says, dumbfounded as they leave the bar. “Beer and _artisan pickles_.”

“Heeeey,” Bucky says, elbowing Steve’s side. “They’re goooooood.” His elbowing turns into stumbling, and Steve reaches an arm around Bucky, steadying him. Bucky hums, moving in a little closer. “I didn’t complain ‘bout—“ he pauses to hiccup, “The play — they play ‘bout unions.”

“It’s historic!” Steve says.

“Is _bad_ ,” Bucky says, gesturing wide and tripping a bit. But before he can hit the ground, Steve’s got his arms wrapped around his chest and pulling him up, back flush against Steve’s chest.

Bucky is drunk enough to contemplate grinding his ass on Steve’s dick, but not drunk enough to actually do it. You’re welcome, Steve.

“Steady there,” Steve says, regrettably letting go of Bucky.

“How’re you so…” Bucky taps Steve’s arm. “We drank the same! This is ridiculous!”

“I don’t get drunk,” Steve says, but Bucky is only half paying attention — his stomach is gurgling, and he’s —

Puking. He’s puking into the bushes.

Steve’s got a warm, large hand on his back, and is keeping up a steady stream of encouraging words as Bucky pukes his guts out. After he’s pretty much done, Bucky straightens and blinks a few times, to get the tears out of his eyes. “Gross,” he mutters.

“You okay?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “Guess I got all the poison out.” He groans a little. “Time t’ get the train.”

“Uh, you sure?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, yeah, is only three stops.”

“Bucky, no. It’s five.”

Bucky shrugs. “I just barfed, so I’ll be sober by the time it matters.”

Steve hesitates, then says, “My apartment is only a few blocks away. I’d be happy to let you sober up there, maybe eat a little toast.”

Bucky shrugs again, trying to seem casual, but the movement just makes him stumble a little more. “Sure,” he says, regaining his balance. “I could eat some toast.”

**…**

Bucky wakes up in Steve’s bed. He’s wearing Steve’s t-shirt and Steve’s flannel pajama pants. (Bucky does not, however, wake up next to Steve, who had taken the couch.) Last night’s details are a little blurry — he’s getting a little too old to drink the way he did last night — but Steve was kind — making him a bird-in-the-nest like his ma did as a kid — before giving him a set of freshly laundered pajamas and leading him to his bed.

For a moment Bucky thought Steve would crawl in next to him. He was disgruntled when Steve opted for the couch.

Bucky crawls out of bed, tugging on Steve’s pants a little. They’re a little tight on Bucky’s ass, but pool around his feet. The shirt is loose enough, but both pieces feel narrow, starchy. Before leaving for undergrad, Bucky had liberated half a suitcase of old shirts from the back of his dad’s closet, thirty-year-old t-shirts from his dad’s Sigma Pi fraternity and Billy Joel concerts he went to. Despite being Steve’s clothes, Bucky misses his shirts.

Or at least he does until he walks out of Steve’s room. And sees Steve, _Steve_ , hunched over the stove and flipping pancakes with intense concentration, which emphasizes how fucking _ripped_ Steve is.

Because Steve? He’s shirtless.

“Mornin’,” Bucky says, wincing at how rough his voice is.

Steve turns around and _Jesus_ , his pectorals. “Bucky!” he exclaims, voice sounding concerned. “Did you drink the water I set out?” he asks.

Bucky nods, yawning lazily as he wills himself to not get a boner looking at the guy who is swiftly becoming his best platonic friend. He tries to think of Steve’s typically unsexy khaki pants and button-downs.

(Bucky never realized that the khakis hid such glorious muscles.)

(Bucky bets Steve could benchpress him.)

(Bucky very quickly tries to expel that image from his mind.)

“I’m making breakfast,” Steve says, “If you can stay a little while longer.” Steve’s blue eyes are hopeful, and while Bucky has a boatload of work to do, he’d rather stay with Steve, eat his pancakes and ogle his body.

“To taste Steve Grant’s home cookin’ sober? I got all day.” Steve smiles as Bucky takes a seat at his kitchen table.

“Great,” he says. “I’m making pancakes now, and I’ve got a scramble in—“ Steve is cut off by a loud, blaring ringtone coming from a phone on the kitchen counter — Steve’s cell phone. Bucky realizes, distantly, that he hasn’t really seen Steve take a call or answer a text before.

Steve stares at the phone, still mid-flip on the pancake. He looks almost troubled, his expression flattening, his face tense. After the ringtone starts up again, Steve sighs, setting the spatula down and turning down the burner underneath the pancakes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, grabbing the phone and answering it as he walks into his bedroom. Bucky can hear him say “Fury,” in a tense voice before he shuts the door.

Feeling suddenly very out of place, Bucky fidgets, looking around the apartment since he doesn’t really know what else to do.

And he realizes that there’s not much there.

Sure, the place is fully furnished — actually, Steve’s furniture looks a lot nicer than even the IKEA stuff from Bucky’s childhood home — but there’s just not a lot of personality. Everything is a shade of beige and generic-looking. The chrome appliances look unused, without a scratch. Even though Steve is an artist, the walls are relatively bare. There’s a few framed boring prints and one old framed photograph of a man and woman in wedding attire — his grandparents, maybe? Other than the photograph, the place looks more like a Manhattan lawyer’s waiting room than a place where Steve would live.

“Fine,” Steve says as he walks out of the bedroom a few minutes later, looking _angry_ for the first time Bucky can recall that didn’t involve the Yankees.

Steve hangs up and sighs. “I have to go,” he says.

“Why?” Bucky asks, feeling a little petulant. He was really looking forward to eating breakfast with Steve shirtless, is all.

“Work,” Steve says with a little huff. “Last minute thing they need me for.” Steve looks irritated enough that Bucky doesn’t pry, even though he’s pretty sure Steve is only half-telling the truth.

“Sucks?” Bucky offers.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sort of deflating. “Sucks.”

“Can’t weasel out? Play hooky?” Preferably by spending the day together, Bucky adds in his mind.

“Wish I could,” Steve says, smiling at Bucky and losing some of his tenseness. “But my ride’ll be here in ten.”

“Then I should—“ Bucky starts, standing.

“No!” Steve says, quick. “I mean, stay. Eat, shower, whatever you want. No use letting this go to waste.” Steve gestures miserably over to the breakfast he started.

“Alright,” Bucky says, sitting back down. “I’ll pack up the leftovers,” he offers, feeling kind of useless.

“Um, freeze them, if you don’t mind. I may not be back for a few days.” Bucky face falls. He doesn’t mean to let it, but it does. “Sorry,” Steve says, quiet.

Bucky clears his throat. “Nah, no need to apologize.” He tries smiling, even if it’s forced.

“I’ve gotta get ready,” Steve says, but he’s looking at Bucky, searchingly.

“Alright,” Bucky says.

Steve slumps a little. “Okay.”

Steve heads in his room and Bucky sighs. He stands up, heads to the stove. While he pours a cup of coffee and loads up a plate of food, he contemplates the next few days. He’d been planning on asking Steve to go with him to a lecture, but he can always go alone. Bucky wonders — as he pours syrup onto his pancakes (and not the shitty syrup, _real_ syrup from Vermont) — whether Steve will be back by Wednesday. They had planned to grab dinner, is all. Well, if Steve isn’t back, Bucky can pick up a few extra shifts at the restaurant. Steve always finds sly ways to pick up the check, and Bucky does want to be able to hold his own, even if he isn’t blessed with a Visa Black Card.

Bucky is a few bites into his breakfast when Steve re-emerges. He’s dressed no differently than usual: red plaid button-up, khaki pants. “We should go shoppin’ sometime,” Bucky says. “Get you some cooler clothes.”

Steve looks down, picking at his shirt. “You think there’s something wrong with my outfit?” he asks.

“It’s just borin’,” Bucky says.

Steve shrugs. “I’m pretty boring.” Bucky snorts. “What?” Steve asks, looking almost offended.

“You’re fulla shit, Steve, but you ain’t borin’.”

Steve looks back down, but he’s holding back a smile. “Thanks Buck,” he says.

“Sure thing.” Bucky pauses, then starts to say, “Hey—“ but he’s interrupted by Steve’s goddamn ringtone going off again. Steve pulls his phone out of his pocket and sighs. “That your ride?” Bucky asks. Steve nods. “Well, see ya later.”

“Yeah, see you,” Steve says. “I’ll let you know when I get back. And stay as long as you want, really. The door locks automatically.”

“Okay.”

Steve’s phone chimes again. He looks at it and scowls. “Jeez,” he says, but his face soften when he looks up. “I do really gotta go.”

Bucky laughs. “Then go! I’m sick of your ugly mug.”

“Fine!” Steve says, laughing. “Sleep in my bed, eat my food, then kick me out!”

“Wham bam thank you ma’am,” Bucky says, grinning.

“Jerk,” Steve calls, as he leaves the apartment, still laughing.

It seems very quiet when Steve leaves.

**…**

The next few days fly by in a somewhat colorless blur. At first, Bucky feels pretty motivated. He adds a few shifts at work, cleans the apartment and goes to the gym. He even sends out a few job applications — a couple publishing houses in New York and D.C., and a few freelance writing gigs, none of which he expects to get. But as the week goes on with no word from Steve, Bucky loses a little steam.

“Why don’t you get in touch with _him_?” Darcy asks on their Thursday night Skype date. “He’s probably all bored and shit and would love to hear from his snuggle muffin.”

Bucky frowns. “I’m not his…”

“Snuggle muffin? Love bear? Starry-eyed crumpet?”

Bucky frowns harder. “Crumpets don’t have eyes,” he says, pouting.

“Irrelevant,” Darcy says, making a shooing motion with her hand. “The laws of the universe don’t make sense when you’re in _love_.”

“We’re not in love,” Bucky says, “And aren’t you workin’ with astrophysicists? Shouldn’t you have learned _somethin’_ about the laws of the universe?”

“Believe me, the laws of the universe make less sense to me every day I’m on this job. And don’t think I don’t see you changing the subject, James Buchanan.”

“We’re not datin’,” Bucky says. Darcy opens her mouth to respond, but Bucky beats her to it. “And we’re not sleepin’ together, either. Don’t even ask.”

“Man, you’ve got it bad.”

“No I don’t!”

“Yeah, you do. You didn’t even say fucking. Next you’ll be saying you and Steve are making sweet, tender love to one another on a mattress covered with rose petals.”

“First, the last thing I want is to worry about rose petals slidin’ up my perky ass when I’m fuckin’ someone—“

“That was weirdly descriptive,” Darcy interrupts, oozing sarcasm in that way of hers.

“Second,” Bucky says, pointed, “Steve and I are just friends.”

“Friends with benefits?”

“Friends. Platonic friends. Friends _sans_ benefits.”

“For now,” Darcy says, raising an eyebrow.

“Forever,” Bucky responds, a sinking feeling in his chest.

**…**

Bucky’s phone buzzes on the train back from his bartending gig the next night. Half-expecting another “Dog Sees Owner For First Time Since Deployment” video from his little sister, he can’t help the stupid grin on his face when he sees that it’s Steve finally getting back in touch.

 

**Steve Grant**

**May 17**

**11:14 PM**

Hi Bucky. Sorry I haven’t been around. Work stuff took much longer than expected. Are you up? Are you around? I was craving the falafel restaurant by your place… If you’re not busy, I could grab some take-out and meet you at your apartment. Please don’t feel obligated if you’re not around or if you’re tired. I’ve just missed you these past few days.

 

Bucky bites down on his lip hard. Steve’s missed him these past few days. He wants to pick up falafel and hang at Bucky’s apartment. After a few days of work, the person wants to see is Bucky. Of all the people in the world, it’s Bucky.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**May 17**

**11:16 PM**

Of course! I’m on the train. Should be home in ~30 min. Looking forward to seeing you.

 

**Steve Grant**

**May 17**

**11:18 PM**

Great!!!! See you soon.

 

**…**

Steve is already waiting in the hallway with with two big brown paper bags with him by the time Bucky gets back to his apartment. He’s sitting, curled in sort of tightly with his knees to his chest. His head pops up when Bucky walks in. “Hi,” he says. “One of you neighbors let me up.”

“Hope you weren’t waitin’ long,” Bucky says as he fishes his keys out of his back pocket.

“No, not at all,” Steve responds, standing up and grabbing the bags of food before following Bucky into the apartment. Steve has already been over a few times, mostly to watch movies they can’t catch in theaters. Bucky doesn’t miss having roommates at all — living alone may mean his apartment is pretty much a piece of shit, but at least he can bring his super platonic friend over at midnight and there’s no one to complain. (Or ask questions.)

But this is also the first time Steve’s been over since Bucky saw Steve’s apartment, and the differences are so obvious: from the dirty plastic dishes sitting in the sink to the Craigslist curbside pick-up furniture. It shouldn’t have surprised Bucky that Steve’s apartment is nice — the man has a Visa Black Card for Pete’s sake — but he wonders how Steve sees Bucky’s place.

“I’ll grab plates if you wanna pull the food out,” Steve says, heading to the kitchen.

“Sure,” Bucky says, making for the table. “Sorry about the mess.”

There’s a pause long enough that Bucky looks up from the bags to see Steve looking back at him, this stupid little content smile on his face, eyes bright. Bucky smiles back, tentative, wondering what it is that’s making Steve smile like that. “You don’t gotta apologize,” Steve says, honestly sounding a little New Yawky. “Makes this place feel like home.”

**…**

Bucky wakes up on the couch, the title screen of the DVD of the _Sound of Music_ playing on repeat. Bucky thinks he dropped off during Maria and the Captain’s wedding, but he remembers the way Steve was tearing up a little. Wiping his sleepy eyes, Bucky sits up. There’s a blanket Bucky could swear was on his bed that’s now wrapped around him. He looks over to the kitchen table and sees that the leftovers are gone, dishes washed. Smiling, Bucky fishes his phone from his pocket to check if Steve left a message — of course he did.

 

**Steve Grant**

**May 18**

**2:02 AM**

Hey Bucky, I’m heading out now. Thank you for letting me come over. I cleaned up a little, too. Give me a text when you wake up. Otherwise, I’ll call you at 9 to make sure you’re up in time for class.

 

**Steve Grant**

**May 18**

**2:35 AM**

Made it home OK. Thanks again for letting me come over. Seeing you was so nice.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**May 18**

**7:52 AM**

I’M ALIVE. Thx for cleaning up and the blanket. Glad u came ovr. Come back soon?

 

**Steve Grant**

**May 18**

**8:00 AM**

Whenever.

**…**

But after that first work thing, Steve gets busier. It’s not like he has a real job with set hours, but there are evenings where Steve has to decline hanging out. Once, he even _cancels_ plans.

“Maybe,” Darcy says on the phone one night, “he’s made some other friends and just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“That would be great!” Bucky says with utterly false enthusiasm. He winces, glad that they’re on the phone and not Skype.

“Oh, you’re so convincing,” Darcy says, deadpan.

“No, no, I’m _so_ convincin’. Steve is, he’s great, and great people should have so many friends. It’s just—“

“You wanna be his boyfriend?”

“Nooo,” Bucky whines. “I just want him to still have time for me.”

“So have you talked to him at all about this?” she asks.

Bucky sighs. “Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to say, ‘hey Steve, in the past few months we’ve hung out so much that I’m practically codependent on you and while I want you to have a job and other friends, I want you to have a job and other friends that allow you to maintain the level of intimacy you’ve had with me up to this point.’”

“Codependent _on_ you?” Darcy asks. “I don’t think that’s how it works grammatically.”

“But it’s kinda fucked up that I want that, right?” Bucky asks.

“You gotta tell him how you _feeeeeel,_ Buck.”

“He already knows.”

“Oh, so you’ve said that you’d like to hold his peen tenderly, whisper Keats poems to it?”

“Keats?” Bucky asks, incredulous. “You’d choose Keats for dick whispers? The guy could barely live through the night, let alone actually do the deed.”

“ _It works_ ,” Darcy says, pointedly. “But that’s beside the point. Nothing’s gonna change unless you make it change! From what you’ve told me, Steve is kind of a meek guy, but one who really cares about you. So, uh, I kinda lost where I’m going with this, but be the bro I know you can be.”

“Shit Darce, when’d you get this wise?”

“This internship has been rubbing off on me. I mean, you do enough classified stuff and suddenly feels like the inner contents of my mind are all important and shit.”

“Classified?” Bucky asks.

“Whoops, gotta go. Jane’s calling for me—“

“I don’t hear—“

“Bye!”

Bucky grunts as he hangs up the call.

**…**

A few nights later Bucky is working the schmoozing Thursday night dinner shift, so he’s already in a pissy mood when a big group of muckety-mucks walk in. It’s a good night for it — the bar is half-full, and they could use something to do besides fill up ginger ale refills. Still, Bucky likes it best when the red vinyl booths are empty, and he can wipe down the smooth wood of the bar or rearrange the display of liquors behind it without having someone bother him for another cosmo. “Fuck,” Bucky’s co-worker Yasmin whispers. “That one guy is a senator from, like, Illinois.”

“Why do you even know that?” Bucky asks, looking over the group of tailored suits.

“Because I’m an informed voter,” she says, then adds, “as well as a poli sci major.”

“Think they’re gonna be dicks?” Bucky asks.

“They’ll probably treat you like crap and tell me that I’m prettier than their third wife, so yeah. Dicks.” She pauses. “Shit, Bucky, you see the tall blond guy? He is _working_ that suit.” Bucky snorts, wondering which first term white dude she’s ogling.

Instead, he sees Steve.

“Bucky!” Yasmin hisses as Bucky drops to the ground. She bends down, looking at him with confusion.

“Shh!” Bucky hisses right back, knowing that he must be looking _insane_. “I know that guy and he… I just can’t have him see me, okay?”

Yasmin gives him a searching look. After a moment she says,“Fine, but you’re telling me why after.” She straightens up and begins fiddling with some glassware.

Bucky takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes. He can hear the group of men greet one another. One man calls, “It’s so great that you could make it, Captain.” Bucky hears Steve respond, “Please, call me Steve.” Another man says, “I always knew you were a modest man,” and the group laughs. Meanwhile, Bucky has his eyes closed and his fingers crossed, praying that they get seated quickly and don’t stop at the bar for some pre-dinner drinks.

Thankfully, they clear the lobby pretty quickly. “Coast is clear,” Yasmin says, and Bucky hauls himself up. He gets a weird look from Ruben, the host, but Bucky has gotten a lot of weird looks from Ruben since their unsuccessful date eight months ago. “So?” Yasmin prompts.

“The blond guy is a friend of mine,” Bucky mutters. “Didn’t want him seein’ me at work.”

“Friend or… _friend_ ,” Yasmin says, lowering her voice.

“Friend. Platonic friend.”

Bucky doesn’t know why he wants to keep Steve from seeing him like this so badly. There’s no shame in bartending, and no shame in needing to pay for school. Yet, the realization that these are the sort of people Steve spends his time with makes Bucky a little queasy. Does he think Bucky is a charity case? A poor, sad student he picked up on the bus? Some kid he can buy dinner for with his black card and laugh about with his political buddies? Or worse, posit him as his poor, sad student friend; isn’t he so great?

No. He’s not. He _can’t_ be. Bucky remembers how Steve looked on the bus that first day, his nervousness and excitement when he and Bucky started talking.

So Bucky has to mean something to Steve, right?

Just then, Raphael comes over with the drink order for “la bola de pendejos,” which Bucky can only assume is the group Steve is in. He rattles off a list of cocktails and expensive wines, as well as one “Sam Adams Summer Shandy for the only one I don’t wanna punch.”

“The hot one?” Yasmin asks, looking at Bucky.

“Sí. Only one who has any manners.”

Bucky smiles as he pulls out the vermouth.

But that smile fades a few minutes later as one of the suits from Steve’s party saunters up to the bar. “Hello there,” he says to Bucky.

“Uh, hi,” Bucky responds, “What can I do for you?”

“My martini was made with vodka, not gin.”

Bucky remembers that martini and no, it wasn’t made with vodka. He had to open a new bottle of Beefeater for it. But whatever.

“I’m very sorry about that,” Bucky says because it’s not worth causing a fuss. “I can remake that for you.”

“Think that’s a good idea,” the man says as he tips over his glass, slowly pouring its contents onto the bar, never breaking eye contact with Bucky. When the olive resting at the bottom of the glass plinks out onto the wood, he smirks. “Well?” he asks, still grinning at what Bucky assumes is his own incredulous expression.

“Right away,” Bucky says. He turns to Yasmin, “Would you get started on this gentleman’s drink while I clean up?” he asks.

“Sure thing,” Yasmin says, putting on her charming smile for the guy as Bucky gets out a dishcloth.

It’s assholes like this who make Bucky hate his job.

An asshole hanging out with Steve tonight. Bucky frowns as he scrubs the bar clean.

When the asshole leaves and the bar is spotless, Bucky pulls out his phone. It only takes a few seconds to find ‘Tyler (Pigeon Hole)’ in his contacts and to shoot off a text asking what he’s doing tonight. Five minutes later Bucky is all set to grab some food with him after work. ‘It’s a date,’ he texts back before he slips his phone back in his pocket.

It’ll be nice, Bucky thinks, to be near someone who also makes drinks for a living.

“Jesus,” Raphael says a few minutes later. “Just getting that table’s check back to them.”

“Are they leaving?” Yasmin asks.

“Looks like it. They were all getting pissed at each other. You can cut the tension like—“ He mimics a karate chop that makes Yasmin roll her eyes.

“I’m gonna take my break,” Bucky says.

“Bucky—“ Yasmin starts, but Bucky interrupts.

“ _Please_ Yasmin. I’ll owe you, like, six shifts. I just really can’t have him see me here.”

Yasmin sighs as Raphael finishes swiping the group’s credit card. It’s not a Visa Black Card, to Bucky’s mild surprise. “Fine,” she says, “but you better be back in fifteen.”

“Thanks!” Bucky says as he basically runs to the back, avoiding the dining room where Steve’s group is sitting. He spends his break laying underneath a table in the break room, biding his time and trying to relax. He tries to do a few deep breathing exercises, but his mind is racing too much to focus. When he’s not thinking about Steve, he’s thinking about his upcoming date with Tyler, which just leads him to think about how this date with Tyler is the first date he’s been on since he met Steve, which just… makes him think about Steve again.

It’s a vicious Steve-filled cycle.

He’s spent the past three months blinded by Steve’s golden hair and sappy smile, not thinking about what may happen when Steve realizes he can hang with a nicer crowd. Senators in suits must be better company than a kid getting a worthless master’s degree with no real idea of what he actually wants to do with his life. Even if Bucky is at least somewhat partial to himself, even he realizes that the choice is clear.

So Bucky just needs to prepare himself for when Steve decides to leave him alone. Forever. While simultaneously trying to extend the period before the dumping as long as possible because Bucky? He really, _really_ doesn’t want to lose Steve.

No big deal.

When his break is nearing its end, Bucky reluctantly pulls himself out from underneath the table, uses the restroom, and heads back to the bar. When Yasmin sees him she mouths, “Sorry,” while pointedly flashing her eyes over to the man sitting at the end of the bar. Who is Steve. Because Steve is sitting at the bar nursing what appears to be a Sam Adams Summer Shandy.

Bucky contemplates running out of the restaurant and pretending to have the stomach flu, but his boss definitely wouldn’t believe him, and there’s only so much of his ass that Yasmin would be willing to cover.

Besides, Steve has already turned around, spotted Bucky, and has one of his stupid perfect smiles is spreading across his face. “Buck!” he says. “Hey!”

Squaring his shoulders, Bucky lets himself behind the bar and moves over to where Steve is sitting. “Hey Captain, fancy seein’ you here.”

Steve winces. “I hate it when they call me that.”

“I didn’t even know your, uh, rank.”

Bucky almost meant it to sting, but it loses heat as he speaks. Steve doesn’t seem to take the hint, thankfully. “And I didn’t know you worked here! I’m glad I spotted you earlier. I spent most of dinner wanting to come over.”

Swallowing hard, Bucky says, “Well, here I am in all my service industry glory.”

Steve frowns. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky lies. “Definitely.”

“Alright,” Steve responds, voice guarded and features concerned. He pauses, clears his throat. “You wanna do something when your shift’s over? When do you get off?”

“‘Bout a half hour,” Bucky says.

“That’s great! I was thinking—“

“But I’ve got a date.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Steve says, “That’s great,” in a subdued way with a forced smile. “With who?”

“Tyler. The barista from the Pigeon Hole?”

“With the…” Steve tugs at his earlobe.

“Gauged ears?” Bucky supplies. Steve nods. “Yeah, he’s the guy.”

“You two been out before?”

Bucky shrugs. “We’ve been textin’ for a while,” he says, nonchalant. If by a while, he means about three times in the three months since he got his number.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t think you’d be interested.”

There’s another awkward moment of quiet. Bucky busies himself with rearranging some glassware, trying to pretend that Steve isn’t staring at him. He wishes someone would put in a drink order or sit down at the bar, and give Bucky an excuse to do something besides trying to remain casual as Steve looks at him with that odd mixture of confusion, disappointment and worry. Of course, Bucky has no such luck, so he says, “You don’t gotta stay here for the likes of me, y’know.”

“You don’t want me here?” Steve asks.

Something angry flares in Bucky. “I didn’t say that,” he says.

Steve narrows his eyes. “But you meant it.”

Unwilling to admit that Steve is right, Bucky huffs out a mustered, “You’re twistin’ my words.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what you really mean?” Steve asks, voice almost harsh.

“Don’t you gotta go catch up to your senator friends or somethin’? Do you really got time to hang out at a bar with some guy?” Bucky’s voice only cracks a little when he says it, which is better than anticipated. He’s still not proud of himself.

But all at once Steve’s expression softens. “Buck, is that what this is about?”

“I dunno what _this_ is,” Bucky mutters, humiliated that Steve saw through him so quickly.

“I had to meet those guys because of work. And Buck? They’re the _worst_.” Bucky lets himself smile a little. “I tried to invent reasons to come over to the bar the whole meal, but whenever I mentioned it, one of the guys at the table would call poor Raphael over and make him run back and forth. I felt awful, but I really did want to see you.” Bucky bites his lip a little, and Steve looks up at him with sincere blue eyes. “And Bucky, you’re not just some guy to me. I haven’t felt that way since the moment we met. I’m lucky to know you, and I…” His voice cracks and Bucky’s eyebrows furrow. Steve looks down and takes a breath, then looks back up at Bucky with a sad sort of smile. “You’re my friend.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, voice barely over a whisper. It’s not because of Yasmin — though he knows that she’s listening to everything they’re saying — but because that was… a lot. Especially coming from Steve.

“Just because I go to dinner with some swells doesn’t make me one.”

“Swells?” Bucky asks, breaking out in a grin.

“I was having dinner with a Senator and I ordered a _beer_ —“

“A cheap beer,” Yasmin adds, proving Bucky’s suspicion that she’s been listening to this whole conversation. That being said, he’s almost positive that she won’t make him pay up on the promised shifts now that she has such juicy blackmail on him.

“A _cheap_ beer. Jeez, Buck. You can put a chimp in a suit, but he’s still a chimp.”

Bucky laughs out loud. “Buddy, you may look like a lotta things in that suit, but a chimp you ain’t.”

“Hm?” Steve asks, looking down at himself. “What do you mean, Buck?”

“Don’t make me spell it out, Steve.” Steve looks up again, cocks his head to the side a little, just adding a layer of cuteness to his already dangerously attractive appearance. Bucky sighs. “Hot, Steve. You look hot.”

“Do I, now,” Steve says, smirking. “Wanna give a little more detail about that, Buck?”

“You know!” Bucky exclaims, accusatory. “You jerk, you totally knew and you still made me say it.”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear it from you,” Steve says, his smirk fading at the end of his sentence.

Bucky’s smile fades, too.

Every part of Bucky wants to ask Steve _why_ — not just about the hot line, but why to everything. Why does Steve care so much? Why does Steve want him around, even when he — superficially, at least — has better offers?

Why can’t he make it clear whether this is a _this_ , or this is something that Bucky needs to move on from?

“I guess I should cash out,” Steve says, startling Bucky out of his morose thoughts.

“You started a tab?” Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs. “Didn’t know when your shift ended.”

“Jeez, how late did you think you were gonna stay?”

Steve shrugs again, downing more than half of what’s left of his beer. Good job, Bucky. You made Steve want to hurry out the door. Holding back a sigh, Bucky starts closing out his tab. He hands the check — and the stupid Black Card — over to Steve. “Hope the service was adequate.”

“Definitely,” Steve says, face suspiciously calm. “Yasmin was really great.” Steve signs his receipt as Yasmin laughs, grabs his card, and hands it back to Bucky.

Steve left a $40.00 tip on a $4.00 beer.

“Text me after your date?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “Sure.”

With Steve looking at him, Bucky doesn’t even think about the possibility of not being able to text Steve because he’s getting lucky.

**…**

“Sorry,” Bucky says, yawning. “Long shift.”

Tyler smiles. He smiles a lot, kind of a tight-lipped smile that’s trying a little too hard. He laughs a lot, too, forced chuckles that make Bucky feel like _he’s_ not trying hard enough. Tyler is a good looking guy, Bucky’s usual type. His undercut has mostly grown in, the brown roots showing in his bleach blond hair. He’s obviously hip — he’s wearing red flannel, blue jeans with holes in them, and wire-framed green glasses that bring out the icy blue of his eyes. Icy blue. Not clear like Steve’s. (Not that Bucky is comparing the two of them, not at all.) “Believe me when I tell you that I understand where you’re coming from.”

They’re sitting on opposite sides of a vinyl booth in a little hipster diner not too far from Bucky’s apartment. Tyler ordered vegan applesauce pancakes. Bucky got a BLT and a strawberry shake, feeling a little like an ass after Tyler’s order.

“Think you’d never get tired workin’ at a coffeeshop.”

“This is, like, very ironic but I stepped off the caffeine train six months ago. Used to get these incredible headaches any day I wasn’t working, and I knew it wasn’t healthy. Then I was going on days I had off just to get my fix and I was spending half my paycheck at the place I was working? It was crazy and super unhealthy, so I stopped.” Bucky slurps down the final dregs of his milkshake. “I only drink decaffeinated tea now. It’s, like, a lot better for both your body and your mind.”

“Not a fan of hot leaf water,” Bucky says.

“Leaf water? Bucky, you should really try some different varieties. There’s a really great—“

Bucky sort of maybe tries to tune Tyler out. Not that tea varieties aren’t endlessly interesting to him… Well, actually, they are. Bucky doesn’t care about tea varieties at all.

(He sort of doesn’t care about _Tyler_ at all.)

(Bucky feels like an ass.)

(Bucky also wonders what Steve is up to.)

“I was really excited when you texted,” Tyler says. “I kind of thought you were a lost cause, which sucked because I feel like we have so much in common and there’s just a really genuine spark here. Right? I haven’t felt this way since my ex, Reggie, but he kind of went coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs, if you get what I mean.”

“Definitely,” Bucky says with a half-smile. “But jeez, I’m real tired. This was fun, but maybe we should head out?” He knows he’s being kind of an asshole, but holy shit. This date is not worth the precious hours of sleep he’s losing.

“Oh! Yeah, that would be… So great, Bucky. Just really great.”

Bucky looks at Tyler, confused. “Alright. I’ll grab the check.”

“Here, lemme—“ Tyler starts.

Thinking of Steve’s $40 tip — split 50/50 with Yasmin; Steve also left a separate tip for Raphael that was, well, a lot more than 20% of their bill — Bucky says, “Nah, don’t bother. I got this one.” He sort of feels bad for skipping out on Tyler so early.

Tyler sort of wiggles, smiling. He does have a nice smile, when it’s genuine. His rosy cheeks and thin lips make him seem a little nicer, a little whimsical and cute.

Bucky tries to make himself want Tyler. He wants so badly to want this guy, who is open and willing to want him back.

Bucky pays the check and when Tyler leans in for a goodnight kiss, Bucky hugs him instead.

**…**

“I was thinking,” Steve says on the phone later that night as he sits on his bed, “that we could go to a club or something. Go dancing.”

“You wanna go to a club?” Bucky asks, incredulous. “Really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? I like… fun things.”

Bucky snorts. “Steve, you wear khakis.”

“There’s nothing wrong with them!” Steve exclaims. “I saw lots of people wearing khakis in that catalogue for L.L. Bean.”

“Maybe in the daylight, but you can’t wear them to a club.” Bucky pauses, then starts to laugh.

“What now?” Steve asks with an indignant little huff.

“Just imaginin’ you grindin’ up on some rando in your fuckin’ khaki pants.”

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims all affronted, but he starts laughing, too.

“Your dick must be sad havin’ to live in there, all pressed and pleated and restrained.”

There’s silence.

Well shit.

Fuck.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, as Steve would say.

Steve and Bucky are friends. _Close_ friends. But they have yet to venture into dick territory. But it’s 2 am and Bucky worked and _then_ went on a shitty date, and he would like to see Steve’s dick. He’d like to see it a lot, and in the very near future.

An apology forming on his lips, Bucky starts to speak, but Steve beats him to it. “Bucky,” he says, somber.

“Yeah Steve?”

“My dick is as vibrant as ever. In fact, some would say that it’s _flourished_.”

“And by some, you mean your own hand?”

It takes almost five minutes for the two of them to stop laughing. When they’ve calmed down Bucky yawns — it really has been a long day.

“Tired?” Steve asks.

“A little,” Bucky admits.

“You should get some sleep.”

“Gonna sing me a lullaby?” Bucky asks, half to prolong the conversation, and half because that would actually be kind of sweet.

“You don’t want me to,” Steve says. “Can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“Doubt that, but I’ll give you a pass just for tonight.”

Steve laughs, but it’s different than their earlier guffaws. It’s quiet and gentle, intimate and lovely. If Bucky were a sentimental sap, he’d say that it sounds like a lullaby in of itself. But Bucky _is not_ a sentimental sap, so he just shuts his eyes, and tries to memorize the sound. “I’ll get a new outfit.”

“What?” Bucky asks, opening his eyes again.

“For the club. I won’t wear my khakis.”

“You were serious about that?”

“Yeah, I…” Steve clears his throat. Bucky tries to imagine his little embarrassed look and smiles at the image. “Going dancing would be fun if it’s with you.” He pauses. “Everything’s better with you.”

Bucky exhales, shuts his eyes tight. “Fine, alright, we’ll go dancin’. Better bring me flowers, though.”

Steve laughs. “What kind?”

“Tulips,” Bucky says. “Only the finest.”

“No, only the best for Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky feels like a dumb teenager, the way that he’s grinning. “Does tomorrow work for you?” he asks.

“Think I can clear my schedule.”

“Great,” Bucky says.

“Great,” Steve parrots back.

“Don’t, uh, actually bring me flowers,” Bucky says, “Not that I thought you were, but they’d be kind of a hassle if we’re dancin’.”

There’s a pause, then Steve’s soft chuckle. It sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine. “Sure, Buck. Night.”

“Night Steve,” Bucky says quietly before hanging up. He plugs his phone in, puts it on Do Not Disturb, then curls up underneath his comforter, wondering about the day ahead.

**…**

Bucky wakes up to a text message from Tyler.

 

**Tyler (Pigeon Hole)**

**May 22**

**9:06 AM**

Hi Bucky, hope you made it home ok! Just wanted to say that I had a great time last night. You free tonight? We could have dinner at my apartment. ;)

 

Bucky groans. He was pretty sure he’d get some message from Tyler, but in his heart of hearts, Bucky had hoped it would be more along the lines of, “Fuck you” or “My disastrous date with you convinced me to go to back to my ex.” Tyler seems like a nice guy. Boring, but nice. Bucky doesn’t want to hurt him. He also doesn’t want to lose his coffeeshop, but that seems inevitable at this point.

With a heavy heart, Bucky texts back.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**May 22**

**9:10 AM**

Didn’t get eaten on my way home, so you don’t need to worry. But I can’t come for dinner, sorry.

 

**Tyler (Pigeon Hole)**

**May 22**

**9:12 AM**

Sorry to hear that! When are you free?

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**May 22**

**9:15 AM**

I had fun last night, but I’m not sure I’m ready for anything more than friendship right now. I’m sorry, Tyler.

 

Bucky doesn’t get a response. He knows he doesn’t really deserve one.

**…**

At 8:59 PM, Steve texts Bucky to tell him that he’s outside. Bucky takes one last look at himself in the mirror — he’s opting for clothes that work for the club, but also won’t freak Steve out too badly: a thin grey v-neck and tight black jeans with black leather loafers and a dark blue blazer. It’s a little more conservative than Bucky’s typical clubbing clothes — not that he goes out all that often — but the blue brings out his eyes in a nice way.

He takes a deep breath, double checks that he has his wallet and his keys, then heads downstairs.

And when he sees Steve, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Hi,” Steve says, smiling at Bucky. He looks down at himself for a moment before looking up again. “I got a new outfit.”

“Um yeah,” Bucky says. “You really did.”

“Is it okay?” Steve asks, smile fading a little.

And oh, how could Bucky even hope to tell Steve what he truly thinks of Steve’s clubbing outfit without:

A) Alerting Steve to his ever-growing feelings for him; or,

B) Popping a boner?

How could Bucky describe just how okay Steve’s ass is in those low-cut, darkish jeans, how it looks almost like a peach in them — (a peach Bucky would desperately like to bite)? Or how Steve’s black tank top — a _tank top_ for Christsakes — clings gently to his pecs, and outlines the hard muscles of Steve’s abdomen? The tank also releases the muscles of Steve’s arms, glorious and huge biceps that make Bucky feel both aroused and inadequate in equal parts.

There is no way Bucky could tell him. None, whatsoever.

Bucky wants to eat him alive, even when he notices the bright white Vans sneakers Steve is wearing, so obviously new, and a little more than dorky. Somehow they just make Steve seem vulnerable, despite the muscles and good looks, and it’s endearing. He manages to look cute, and life is deeply, desperately unfair.

Meanwhile, Bucky feels like a complete tool in his freaking _blazer._

“Eh,” Bucky says, affecting his voice so that it’s obvious that he’s kidding. “You look fine.”

Steve laughs, then slides up next to Bucky. “You look really nice,” he says with a little smile. Bucky tries to clamp down on the little pleased smile that’s threatening to escape. “That shade of blue looks nice on you.”

“Liar,” Bucky says, elbowing Steve’s side. “It’s dark out; there’s no way you can tell!”

“Excuse me!” Steve says, throwing his hands up and laughing. “I happen to have excellent night vision.”

“Sure you do, you big flatterer.”

“Just being honest!”

“Sure you are. You’re tryin’ to butter me up, make me feel good. Then you’re gonna have me chat everyone up at the club as your wingman so you can get laid.”

Steve’s face falls all at once. “Wingman?” he asks.

“Yeah, um,” Bucky says, losing his jovial tone of just a few moments before. “Like your friend? Who goes—“

“No,” Steve interrupts. “It’s just…” He exhales. “Never mind.”

They walk in silence for a minute before Bucky says, “Hey Steve?” softly.

“Yeah?”

“You okay? We don’t have go out. Honestly, I’d just be fine goin’ back to my place or somethin’. We could watch _Titanic_?” They watched it for the first time about a month back, and Steve’s been obsessed with it since. Bucky’s pretty sure it’s because Steve relates to Jack, for whatever reason. Must be because they’re both artists.

Steve is quiet for a few steps, then says, “We’re all dressed up . Might as well stay out.” He smiles at Bucky, and it’s inviting and forgiving.

Bucky smiles back, feeling all warm and gooey and safe.

**…**

Then again, forty minutes later Bucky feels awkward and uncomfortable and grumpy.

They’re at a club Bucky’s been to a few times, mostly when he was an undergrad. It’s only somewhat popular, so they didn’t have much trouble getting in, and while it’s not a gay club, it’s LGBT-friendly enough that Bucky knows that there will be some guys who are interested (and that if he hits on someone who isn’t interested, he probably won’t get beaten up). But it’s also got women who Steve may be interested in, because despite their initial interaction and Steve’s interest in LGBTQA fiction of the twentieth century, Bucky actually has no idea who Steve is interested in, if anyone.

But Steve’s been tense from the moment they walked inside. They took a seat at a booth in a corner away from the dance floor and have been sitting there since. Not dancing. Not drinking. Not flirting. Just sitting together on the wall and making small talk over the music.

“You wanna dance?” Bucky asks when he starts getting so bored that he contemplates playing Angry Birds on his phone.

“I can’t dance,” Steve responds, looking hangdog.

“C’mon Steve, it ain’t _that_ hard. Want me to teach you?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light, wiggling his eyebrows a little to try to make Steve smile.

“No, um. It’s okay. I just…” He trails off, slumping.

“Then how about some drinks?” Bucky asks.

“Sure. Beer?” Steve asks.

“You don’t wanna go to the bar?”

Steve looks confused. “I’ll save the seats,” he says.

Bucky doesn’t anything, just stands up with a sigh and pushes his way towards the bar. He’s trying not to resent Steve, but it’s a little hard. Why did he ask Bucky to come out like this if he just wanted to sit in a corner? They could have done that for free at home actually having fun. Sighing, he leans against the bar, hoping to catch a bartender’s attention.

The guy standing next to him looks over and smiles. It’s not nearly as good as the Steven Grant-patented sunshine smile, but it’s nice to see that someone is smiling at all in this place. “Hey,” the guy says, “Why the long face?”

Bucky stops sulking and changes his expression to a flirtatious smirk. “Been waitin’ for someone to come get me a drink.”

“Think I could help you with that,” the guy says.

“Bet you could, mister…?”

“Call me Luke.” Luke is a little sleazy-looking if Bucky is going to be honest. Black jeans, green button down, leather shoes with spiky brown hair. He is not boyfriend material, but the way he’s looking at Bucky doesn’t make him feel very boyfriend-ish.

“Bucky,” Bucky says, reaching out a hand for Luke to shake.

Luke hums, obviously checking Bucky out, head to toe. He takes Bucky’s hand, but instead of shaking, he uses it to pull Bucky close. “How about we skip that drink and dance a little?” He moves his pelvis a little closer to Bucky’s and woah there, Bucky suddenly really wants to dance.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, a little breathless. “We can—“

“Bucky,” says Steve in a stern voice from behind him. Bucky jumps a little, sort of pushing Luke off of him in the process. “Need a hand with those drinks?” Steve is using this stern voice that he usually saves for talking about the trajectory of the Republican Party or governmental transparency. And apparently for Bucky trying to get laid. When Bucky turns around, he sees Steve glaring at Luke with scary furrowed brows, arms crossed over his chest, highlighting his muscles.

“I was thinkin’ about dancin’ for a bit, actually.”

“Alright,” Steve says, taking a step towards Bucky. “We can—“

“You _just said_ you didn’t want to,” Bucky snaps, frustration bubbling over.

“I’m gonna…” Luke says, taking a step back.

“No—“ Bucky starts, but is interrupted by Steve’s curt, “That’s probably a good idea.”

With that, Luke scampers off, and Bucky turns on Steve. “What the hell?” he asks.

Steve stops glaring at Luke’s retreating form long enough to glare at Bucky. “He was bad news,” he says, like he would _know_ , which makes almost no sense. Unless Steve has super-hearing, it would be impossible for him to have even known that he and Bucky were talking from across the room.

“Maybe, but it should be up to me to figure that out!” Steve rolls his eyes and Bucky starts seeing red. “Screw this,” he says, tearing away from the bar. He hears Steve call after him, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. Bucky is just gonna walk home, take off these uncomfortable pants, and watch _Saw_ or something.

That is until he’s about five yards from the club, where Steve pops up in _front_ of him.

“Jesus!” Bucky cries, startled. “How the hell did you get in front of me?”

“Why are you leaving?” Steve asks.

Bucky rolls his eyes, but says, “Because apparently my choices for the evening are to either sit in the corner of that place morosely with you, or go’ home, and honestly? I’d rather go home.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, face softening. “I wasn’t lying when I said that guy is bad news. I just wanted to protect you.”

Bucky takes a shallow breath and shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to will himself to calm down a little before he speaks. After opening his eyes again, Bucky sees Steve, looking vulnerable and tired. Bucky sighs. “I don’t need protection, alright? I make my own decisions, good or bad—“

“But—“ Steve tries, but Bucky doesn’t let him interrupt.

“But nothin’, alright? I care about you Steve, but you’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to choose who I sleep with. Honestly, you wouldn’t get to do that even if you _were_ my boyfriend, but I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else because…” Bucky trails off. He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“Because I’d be your boyfriend?” Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs. “But you’re not,” he responds, hating the way his voice cracks.

They stand there, looking at one another for a moment. A car breezes past them and Bucky can hear the faint thumping of the bass from the club. “It’s complicated—“ Steve starts, but Bucky cannot deal tonight. He just cannot deal with it.

“Everythin’ about life is complicated, Steve. You’ve just gotta decide to live anyway.”

“Bucky—“

“No, I… I just gotta go home, okay?” He sounds tired to his own ears.

“Let me walk with you?” Steve asks with a little tragic smile. Bucky shakes his head, but Steve’s smile remains as his eyes grow devastated. He even takes a tentative step forward. “Then let me come over tomorrow morning? I’ll get bagels from the deli you like.”

Bucky shuts his eyes again, trying to silence the hundred voices in his head that are telling him to step back now before he gets hurt by whatever complications Steve thinks he has. Bucky has decent judgment — or at least he has since he turned twenty-two — and everything about this boy screams ‘this will end with you going to his wedding and getting bitterly gin drunk while he kisses his bride to be before fucking you in the bathroom as his dirty secret during the reception.’ Bucky has watched enough Lifetime movies and read enough sad gay novels to know where this ends.

But Bucky also likes bagels. Loves them, in fact.

He sighs. “Bring lox,” he says as Steve’s smile grows. “The _salty_ kind. I don’t care if the old guy behind the counter gives you shit for it.”

“Alright. I’ll be there at nine?”

“Nine works.” Steve looks like he may just keep talking, but Bucky just really needs to get out of these pants. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, and… Bye Bucky.”

“Bye Steve.”

**…**

Bucky falls asleep listening to The Police’s 1983 mopey classic _Every Breath You Take_ on repeat. He’s not proud of that fact, but he also doesn’t turn it off.

**…**

Steve knocks on the door of Bucky’s apartment at 8:58. Somehow Bucky isn’t surprised.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky drags himself over to the door and opens it.

“Morning!” Steve calls, looking — frankly — a little frazzled. His arms are laden with plastic bags of food and his hair is a little fluffy-looking, not as stiff as usual, a little unstarched. And while he’s wearing his khakis, he’s wearing them with a plain white t-shirt. “Should I…?” Steve asks, gesturing to the table.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, moving aside so Steve can come through the door and into the apartment. Steve barges in, a frantic sort of energy surrounding him. He sets the bags down on the table, then turns to Bucky. “You’re being quiet,” Steve says with enthusiasm.

“Sorry, just haven’t gotten coffee yet.”

Steve grins and turns back to the table. He rustles through a few of the bags — there are _five_ , and Bucky really should get him some reusable ones — before pulling out a blue thermos. “It’s coffee from Pigeon Hole. Actually, it’s a hazelnut mocha, because I remembered that you like that hazelnut spread, and that you were gonna avoid the Pigeon Hole for a while.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, feeling equal parts weirded out and touched that Steve brought his own thermos with him to get Bucky a hazelnut mocha from the coffeeshop that Bucky doesn’t want to go to because he had an unsuccessful date with the barista. “Thanks, uh, you wanna split it?”

“I’m fine — I’ve already had a few cups.”

“Jeeze Steve, when did you wake up?” Bucky asks as he heads over to Steve to get the thermos.

Steve’s smile falters for just a moment. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“You alright?” Bucky asks.

Steve smiles again. “I am now.” He hands Bucky the thermos. Bucky thanks him and heads into the kitchenette to get a mug for the coffee as well as some plates and silverware for the food. “I know last night was, um,” Steve says from where he’s standing.

“Messy?” Bucky suggests as he pours out the coffee into a SHIELD mug he bought from a little roadside stand he went to that time he visited DC. Becca wanted to visit her then-boyfriend Sam, but things got a little awkward when they broke up on the _second day_ of the week-long trip. Becca was in a terrible mood (even though _she_ dumped _Sam_ ) and Bucky had to walk around the National Mall alone while she moped.

“Yeah.” Steve walks into the kitchenette, grabbing the plates Bucky put out and bringing them to the table as Bucky walks over with the coffee. “And I…” Steve sets the plates on the table. Logically, they should sit down and eat some of the crap ton of food Steve brought, but neither sit. Instead, they stand, Bucky taking a sip of his coffee as Steve continues. “I wasn’t joking when I said that things are complicated.”

“That’s okay,” Bucky says. “You keep bringin’ me this coffee and I can deal with complicated.”

Steve chuckles, smile achingly endearing and sincere. “I’ll get you coffee whenever you want.” But then his smile fades. “I’m not…” He exhales, frustrated with himself. “Everything is… It’s just…” He sighs. “I practiced this,” he admits with a self-deprecating smile. “But now nothing’s coming out.”

“Then I can start,” Bucky says, surprising himself.

“That’s… sure. Alright,” Steve says, smile disappearing rapidly. He looks wide-eyed and worried, hands shoved in his pockets.

Bucky sets down his mug — noticing the way Steve’s eyes linger on it for an odd second — and sighs. “I feel like we fell into this friendship really quickly, and I need to know where I stand with you and what you want from me.”

“I…” Steve starts, then hangs his head. “I don’t know.”

Bucky takes a breath. “That’s a problem.” Steve looks miserable. “You’re important to me, Steve, but if you want to keep things the way they’ve been we need to figure out some boundaries, because the last few days… Haven’t been okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, voice cracking.

If he weren’t sure it’d be counterintuitive, Bucky would go hug him. Instead he says, “And so am I. I don’t think I’ve been—“

Steve’s phone starts ringing.

Both pause for a moment, then Steve says, “It’s work.”

“Do you have…?” Bucky starts, trailing off as the ringtone sounds, shrill.

“It’s… I should… I’m sorry, I…” He pulls the phone out of his back pocket. He squints at the screen before accepting the call. “Now’s not a good time,” Steve says, and Bucky gives him a little hopeful smile. But whoever is on the other line must not think whatever Steve is doing is all that important because they keep speaking. Steve’s eyes go wide and he starts nodding, adding small words of affirmation every so often. “Alright,” Steve says after a few minutes. He rattles off Bucky’s address and says, “I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up and looks at Bucky, guilty.

Bucky realizes that his face has fallen and his chest feels cold. “You’re leavin’?”

Steve nods. “It’s an emergency, Buck. Important.”

“Sure,” Bucky says.

“I want to stay,” Steve says.

Bucky — embarrassingly — is tearing up. He swallows his tears and nods. “You should go.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, taking a step forward.

Bucky takes a shallow breath. “Please Steve, just go.”

Steve takes that step back. “You’re mad.”

“I’m frustrated,” Bucky admits.

“Bucky, you have to know that I wouldn’t leave if it weren’t important.”

“Who knows,” Bucky says, incredulous, and knowing he’s being cruel.

“Buck—“

“Steve, if it’s so important, then go. I don’t wanna belabor the point.”

Steve tightens his jaw, looking like he’s ready for a fight. “Fine,” he says. Then his face softens. “I’ll text you as soon as I can. I promise.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. He’s still blinking back tears, and he just wants Steve to leave before they start falling.

Steve’s face hardens again, but it’s determined this time. He strides across the room and Bucky’s eyes widen, thinking Steve may throw a punch. But instead he pulls Bucky into a tight hug. Bucky is tense at first, still surprised and bracing himself for that punch. But he feels the insistent way Steve squeezes so he relents, wrapping his arms around Steve’s back and squeezes back. He shuts his eyes and breathes in deep. Steve smells like generic soap. It’s nice.

“Bucky, I—“ Steve starts, but is interrupted by that damn phone again. He sighs and disentangles himself from Bucky. “That’s my ride,” he says.

“Okay,” Bucky takes a step back. Steve nods, stepping back himself. “I’ll text you.”

Steve is almost at the door when Bucky surprises himself by saying “Stay safe.”

Steve pauses, looks over his shoulder. “Thanks Buck. I will.”

**…**

Bucky goes to his room, shuts the door and cries in a way he thinks he hasn’t cried since Dylan Gilmore called him a faggot in the locker room three days after they exchanged messy kisses and sloppy hand jobs after ditching their respective female homecoming dates. Bucky had fancied himself in love them.

He’s not sure that he _loves_ Steve, per se. But it’s also not _not_ a possibility.

(If that makes sense. Bucky’s pretty sure that nothing about this situation makes much sense.)

It won’t work with Steve. Despite their typical physical proximity and the way he seems to fit into Bucky’s life like a puzzle piece he hadn’t realized he’d lost, Steve is always at arm’s length. Bucky doesn’t know anything about Steve’s past — about his family, his school, his time overseas, his life. Steve hasn’t even told him about his mysterious job, the one that ruined what may have been Steve’s dramatic and poignant confession.

So, it’s better to back off, right? To slip away? Bucky’s been hurt before. Sure, he’s not a relationship expert and sure, he’s mostly stuck to casual dating and sleeping around, but he’s been waiting for the right person to commit to.

As he dries his tears he desperately tries to convince himself that Steve isn’t that person.

**…**

Bucky hauls ass to the library and spends the day burrowed in his desk with some sexy books about Revolution-era Russian literature. No, not the literature itself — books _about_ the literature. (Not for the first time Bucky questions his life choices.) It’s enough to keep his mind and body occupied for a while, enough to get him through most of the day.

When he emerges from the library that evening there’s no text from Steve.

He goes out to dinner with some school friends and between bouts of being ribbed about his virtual disappearing act of the past three months, there’s still no text from Steve. Bucky makes out a little with one of those friends he used to hook up with, just for old time’s sake. When that friend asks if Bucky wants to go back to his place, Bucky checks his phone. He sees that there’s no text, and nods. And there’s no text from Steve later that night when Bucky is riding the train back to his place, feeling dissatisfied and, frankly, sad.

He falls asleep listening to The Police for the second night in a row. It’s a new, pathetic record.

**…**

The next day passes in a similar blurry fashion.

**…**

And on the third day aliens attack New York City.

**…**

“Steve, hey, this is Bucky again. Please call me back, okay? I just wanna know you’re safe. Hell, just send me a one letter text — that’d be fine! Just, lemme know you’re alive, Steve, please.”

**…**

Bucky’s apartment isn’t in the evacuation zone, so he sits and waits. He doesn’t watch the TV — it’ll just freak him out even more than he already is. He checks his phone and Facebook constantly, getting check-ups from friends and feeling relieved every time he sees a status that says, “Made it out of Midtown! In New Jersey. Never thought I’d be excited to be in New Jersey.”

But he still doesn’t hear from Steve.

Bucky thinks maybe that Steve is involved in the fight. He did say he’s doing defense work, even if he never said what kind. The thought of maybe picking Steve out in the crowd of officers helping the Avengers almost makes Bucky turn on the TV. But the thought of seeing Steve shot in the chest by an alien or crushed to death by debris keeps him from turning it on.

It’s a tense few hours. Bucky puts his headphones on and listens to Debussy. If he dies, he wants to die to _Clare de Lune_ , not the sounds of destruction from outside his window.

He checks his phone again and again, scrolls through the fourteen times he’s called Steve and the twenty two text messages he’s sent. He sends another:

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**May 25**

**2:39 PM**

Just send me a single letter. Please. Just let me know that you’re alive.

 

Bucky gets five texts from concerned out-of-state relatives and nine from friends. None from Steve.

He cranks his music louder, shuts his eyes, squeezing them tight and prays in Hebrew for the first time in years.

**…**

The battle ends. The Avengers won. Bucky cries because in his heart of hearts he knows that Steven Grant is dead.

**…**

Bucky is on his couch watching Charlie Chaplin’s _City Lights_ when there’s a sharp knock on the door to his apartment. Bucky sighs. The roads got closed off, and he’d recently heard from his cohort member Aya — she said she was going to try to find a friend to stay the night with in Midtown, but that she may need to stay with Bucky if she couldn’t find anywhere else. Bucky would rather sit solemnly on the couch staring at his phone all night, but he couldn’t tell her no.

So he trudges over to the door, opens it, and—

Steve is there.

Bucky doesn’t even stop to look, just jumps on him, throwing his around Steve and squeezing as hard as he can, eyes closed tight. “Steve,” he breathes.

"Never Talk to Strangers" by [wizardmemes](http://wizardmemes.tumblr.com/post/149365998044/bucky-doesnt-even-stop-to-look-just-jumps-on).

“I’m here, Buck.” Steve holds him back, even lifts him enough that he can walk them into the apartment, using his elbow to shut the door behind him.

“‘M not lettin’ go,” Bucky says.

“Don’t want you to.” Steve puts Bucky back down, and Bucky buries his face in Steve’s neck. It’s honestly pretty sweaty, dirty and gross, but Bucky can’t bring himself to care. He just breathes in that sweaty scent, grateful that Steve is there standing in Bucky’s arms instead of dead somewhere in Manhattan.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Bucky says. “I kept imaginin’ the worst fuckin’ scenarios.”

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve says, quiet. “I’m here now. I’m right here.”

“Why didn’t you answer me?” Bucky asks.

“Huh?”

“My texts. My calls.” Bucky pulls himself away from Steve’s chest to look up at his face. “I sent you an embarrassin’ amount of ‘em.”

“Couldn’t check my phone.”

Bucky frowns. “That’s irresponsible.”

“Can we go back to hugging?” Steve asks.

Bucky frowns harder. “I was worried about you!” He half shoves Steve’s shoulder, trying to get the point across that he’s _serious_ and _angry_.

For a moment Steve looks like he may argue with him, but then all at once Steve’s face just crumples. “Steve?” Bucky asks, tentative.

Steve shakes his head, pulling Bucky back in and gripping him, frankly, uncomfortably tight. “Thank you,” he says, voice cracking.

“I didn’t—“ Bucky starts.

“You cared, Buck. You’re the only person in the world who cared if I made it out okay.”

Bucky exhales, slow. “So you were there? At the battle?”

“Yes.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky says, closing his eyes tight. “How was it?”

“Buck, it was an alien invasion. It sucked.”

Bucky laughs, before dropping his arms and looking up to Steve. “You’re okay though? Not hurt?”

“Scrapes and bruises.”

Bucky reaches up and touches a purple bruise on Steve’s cheek with gentle fingertips. Neither breathes. “Are you hurtin’?” Bucky asks, quiet.

“I feel better being back home with you.”

Bucky’s feeling a little flustered, so he takes one step back, then another. He looks at Steve, really looks at him, and… his choice of outfit is pretty interesting. It’s a bright blue suit with a white star on the chest, and red and white stripes on the belly. Bucky knows what it is — a Captain America uniform. Bucky wore one for Halloween when he was nine.

But why would Steve be wearing one?

“Bucky—“ Steve starts, but Bucky interrupts, “What’s with the outfit?”

“It’s my uniform.”

Bucky blinks. “Steve… Are you one of those guys who dresses up in Times Square?” Bucky asks, confused. Steve shakes his head, something weird in his eyes. “Dress up for kid’s birthday parties?”

“No, Buck. I, um. This is what I wear for my defense job.” He’s wringing his hands. Bucky swallows hard.

“Why do you wear a Captain America uniform for your defense job?” Bucky asks, throat dry.

“It’s not a Captain America uniform,” Steve says, and Bucky feels a minute sense of relief. “It’s _the_ Captain America uniform.”

There’s a pause before Bucky clarifies, “Which you wear to work?” Steve nods. “Because you’re…” Bucky starts, not wanting to finish the sentence with what he feels is probably the correct ending.

“Captain America,” Steve says, voice flat.

Bucky stares at Steve. Steve stares at Bucky.

Bucky exhales slowly. He walks over to the couch and sits on it. He stares at the wall. He can hear Steve walking up behind him. “Buck?” he asks, quiet.

“Sit next to me and silently count to forty-five,” Bucky instructs.

“Alright,” Steve says, crossing the couch and sitting on the opposite side from Bucky, a good foot of space between them. Steve continues to wring his hands as Bucky tries to process whatever this is.

He’s not processing it well.

The forty-five seconds go by too quickly. “Buck? Need me to keep counting?” Steve asks.

“So, do they… choose you to be Captain America?”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“What number Cap are you?” Bucky asks, turning to Steve. Steve looks at him, blank. “Well, the first Cap died in World War II, right? So do they pass the shield on? How many people have been Cap so far?”

“Bucky, I’m the only Captain America.”

Bucky snorts. Steve frowns.

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky says, standing up. He heads to the bookcase on the far wall of the room, scans the spines until he sees what he wants: _A Boy From Brooklyn: Steven Grant Rogers and the Shaping of an American Legend_ by Doris Kearns Goodwin, published in 2002. He got it as a gift once, but never actually read it. He pulls it off his shelf, flips it over so it’s cover side up, and.

And the smile falls from his face.

“Steve,” he says, looking at the cover, then back to the man on his couch, then again. “This is you.” He lifts the book up, cover facing Steve. Steve nods. Bucky carries the book with him back to the couch. He plops down, dropping the book between him and Steve. Bucky knows Steve’s looking at him all concerned. “So are you… a clone?”

“What?” Steve asks, incredulous. “No.”

“Then do you just not age?”

“Honestly? I don’t know,” Steve says.

“Steve, if you’ve been walkin’ around lookin’ like that for seventy years then I don’t think you’ve aged.”

“Bucky, I wanna tell you everything.” Steve’s voice is soft, his eyes downcast. “Can I?” he asks.

Feeling like he’s about to dive into something big and cold and out of his control, Bucky nods.

**…**

So Steve explains: the serum, the war, his death, his defrosting. “I had been in town two days when I met you. I was in a real bad way and you,” Steve sighs, “You seemed like a sign. Everything pointed towards disaster until I met you.”

He looks up at Bucky, hopeful.

Bucky, who remained quiet up to this point in the story says, “So you were in the plane, you froze, but stayed alive, then they shoved you in a remote cabin for seven months to learn how to be a person before you coincidentally ran into me?” Steve nods. “Steve,” he says, agog, “They did a _terrible_ job!”

“What?” Steve asks.

“Steve,” Bucky says, laughter threatening to spill out, “You wrote a text like a formal letter! You didn’t know who James Bond is!” He’s laughing now, half manic with it.

And Steve starts laughing, too. “I know!” he says. “I felt like a toddler, I was…” His laughs trail off, taper into a heaving sob. “Sorry,” he says, eyes filling with tears. “Sorry, I…” A few tears fall down his face, still dirty and sooty from when he fought _aliens_ just a few hours ago.

Bucky thinks that Steve is probably having a really shitty day.

Which is why Bucky is a really shitty person for thinking that Steve is an _ugly_ crier. Red cheeks, bloodshot eyes, snot dripping — the whole shebang. And he’s turning away, embarrassed and sniffling.

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly, “Can I hug you?”

Steve looks back at Bucky, startled, eyes wide. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“I want to. So, can I?” There’s a pause, then Steve nods, jerky and small. Bucky moves so he’s flush against Steve, thighs touching. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s wide shoulders and pulls him in close. Steve is stiff for a moment, then all but collapses into Bucky, head in the crook of Bucky’s neck, shoulders shaking as he cries quietly. Bucky just rubs Steve’s back, whispering whatever nice things he can think of to say: “It’s alright Steve, you’re okay. I’ve got you, Steve. I’ve got you.”

**…**

The minutes roll by — Bucky doesn’t know how long they sit on the couch. He doesn’t mind; he thinks that Steve has been holding a lot in, and it’s probably good that he’s getting some kind of release.

Plus, Bucky can’t say he minds having Steve wrapped up in his arms, safe and warm, especially when he didn’t know where he was for so long. Especially when he was practically mourning him.

When Steve straightens up again, he wipes his face off, and won’t look Bucky in the eye. “Hey Steve,” Bucky says with a little half-smile. Steve turns his head a little, eyebrows raised. “At least now you don’t need to wash your face.”

Steve ducks his head, chuckles, and while Bucky still has a thousand questions, he thinks things may end up okay.

 

 

**Part II.**

That is until Steve is naked in his apartment. American hero, World War II veteran, and all-around do-gooder Steven Grant Rogers, aka Captain America, is naked in Bucky’s apartment. Sure, he’s naked in the bathroom, showering behind closed doors, and sure, Bucky is stuck at the stove, cooking up a vat of Kraft mac and cheese for them to share, but that doesn’t mean Bucky can’t stop thinking about how the water would look as it drips down Steve’s back or traces his cheekbones. Or how, right now, Steve is slathering himself up with Bucky’s body wash, and how he’ll come out in a cloud of steam smelling like a mix of the two of them.

Bucky is feeling a little warm. Must be the stove.

When Steve emerges, he’s toweling off his hair. He’s dressed in a big t-shirt — or, at least big on Bucky, maybe not on Steve — and a pair of flannel pants that, admittedly, came from one of Bucky’s slightly taller exes. He smiles, a little bashful. “Smells good.”

“Best food for a bad day,” Bucky responds. “Can you grab some bowls?” he asks. “It’s just about done.” The extra cheese Bucky added is melting and the garlic bread Bucky made is warming up in the oven.

“Sure thing,” Steve says, walking into the kitchen. He drops the towel onto the back of a chair and slides in next to Bucky, reaching up to the cabinets above the stove. Bucky can’t help but smile about how Steve knows exactly where the bowls are. Bucky’s not sure he’s ever had someone who knows where the bowls are before Steve.

“Need me to?” Bucky asks, starting to step away.

“Nah,” Steve says, reaching up for bowls with one hand, and pulling Bucky back in by the hip with the other. Bucky freezes, mid-stir, feeling the gentle press of Steve’s fingers on his soft t-shirt. Just that little touch sends shocks through all of Bucky’s body. Steve is just all-natural, grabbing bowls like his hand isn’t shaking Bucky’s entire core.

“Got ‘em,” Steve says, smiling, pulling his hand away and setting the bowl next to Bucky. “Anything else I can help with?” Steve asks.

For a second, Bucky spaces out. It would be nice, he thinks, if this were his life — he and Steve, hanging out, being together, cooking meals and laughing. Maybe Steve pressing a quick kiss on Bucky’s lips as he grabs the plates from him.

Except, Peggy Carter, right?

Bucky remembers enough from AP US History to know that Peggy Carter (besides being a bona fide female badass and trailblazer) was Steve’s lady friend.

So. Unless the paragon of American identity is bisexual, Bucky is metaphorically — not physically — screwed. No matter how many times Steve may touch his hip, Bucky’s crush is hopeless.

“Bucky?” Steve asks. Bucky jerks, shaking his head and blinking a few times, trying to erase the mental image of Steve smiling at him from across the pillows, blinking with bleary morning eyes and tousled hair. “Buck?” Steve reaches out and touches Bucky’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Huh?” Bucky asks, not sure if he should shy away from Steve’s touch and hiss like a cat, or if he should push himself into Steve’s touch and then rub his scent glands all over him, also like a cat.

Either way, Bucky is a cat, and either way, Bucky is so completely fucked.

“Got a bit of a thousand yard stare, there. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m bein’ dumb,” Bucky says, forcing a smile. Though he drops his hand, Steve looks unconvinced. “Just a weird day, a lot to process. My brain’s tryin’ to catch-up.”

“Not dumb at all. I understand.”

Bucky groans. Steve looks at him concerned again, so Bucky moves his attention back to the macaroni. He gives it a stir. “Here I am goin’ on, when you fought _aliens_ a few hours ago. _Aliens_.”

Steve chuckles, low. “It’s not a contest, Buck. And believe me, nothing surprises me much since I met Johan Schmidt.”

“That was the Red Skull, right?” Bucky asks. Steve nods. “Did you ever, like, touch it?”

Steve barks out a loud laugh, then says, “Can’t say I did.” He pauses, looks down. “Y’know, that’s not usually the first question people ask me when they ask me about the Red Skull.”

“Do you think it felt waxy? It looks waxy in the pictures, like those nasty wax lips candies.” Bucky reaches for the bowls and starts scooping macaroni into them.

“Sweaty, I think,” Steve says, grabbing the bowls from Bucky and bringing them to the table. Bucky grabs oven mitts from the counter and gets the garlic bread out of the oven.

“Plate?” Bucky asks.

“Sure,” Steve says, jogging back to the kitchen and grabbing a plate from the upper cabinet. Bucky plucks the pieces of garlic bread up piece by piece from the baking sheet and plops them onto the plate. “Up close you could see the sweat dripping down,” Steve says quietly, focused on the garlic bread. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Steve is still talking about the Red Skull, the insane Nazi eugenicist that Steve, y’know, killed.

“Were you scared?” Bucky asks.

Steve smiles, but it’s his sad smile, the one Bucky hates. “I did what I had to do.” He plucks the last piece of bread up. “Dinner?”

“All ready,” Bucky responds, setting the baking sheet down in the sink. “I didn’t have any veggies around—“

“Not a surprise,” Steve says, taking the garlic bread to the table.

“Don’t worry,” Steve says. “I’m just happy to be here. Bucky believes him.

**…**

Steve lingers after dinner, hovering as Bucky does the dishes. “I really don’t mind,” Steve says, trying to get Bucky to hand him dishes to dry.“Jeez Steve, you’d think savin’ the world would be enough for one day, now you gotta save my kitchen—“

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts, face serious, “You don’t have to, I don’t _want_ you to treat me any differently now that you know.” Bucky can’t help but laugh. “Is this funny?” Steve asks, looking like he’s about five seconds away from exploding.

Bucky puts the bowl down in the sink and grabs Steve’s shoulders, only belatedly realizing that his hands are wet, soapy bubbles covering them. “Steve,” he says, trying to keep his voice as serious as he can make it, “Tryin’ to be a good host by not makin’ my friend do chores after a long day is me just tryin’ to not be an asshole.” He drops his hand and sighs. “But if you want do my dishes, be my guest,” he says, all drama.

“You call that being a good host?” Steve asks, and if Steve weren’t grinning impishly, Bucky would almost think he’s mad at him.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I do.”

“Then you oughtta clean up your act!”

And before Bucky can ask what the hell Steve meant by that, Steve reaches into the sink, grabs a handful of bubbles, and throws it at Bucky. “Ass!” Bucky shouts, grabbing a handful of his own and tossing it Steve’s way. What results is five minutes of bubbly and watery mayhem, where Bucky even takes the removable hand faucet from his sink and sprays a jet of cold water at Steve’s dick.

They’re wet with water and red with laughter by the time they fizzle out. When Bucky can catch his breath he starts past Steve towards the bedroom. “I’ll grab us some tow—“he starts, but turns into a yelp as his feet slide on the soapy wet floor, and he starts tumbling over face-first.

He shuts his eyes, bracing himself for pain when he feels Steve’s armsaround his waist, turning him around. He falls with a grunt, Steve on his back beneath him, softening Bucky’s fall.

“You okay?” Steve asks from beneath him, mouth so close to Bucky’s ear that he can feel him breathe.

“Minus the shame of slippin’ in my own kitchen? Yeah.” Steve laughs quietly, voice sending tingles down Bucky’s spine. He can even feel the soft contractions of Steve’s chest beneath him as Steve breathes and laughs. Bucky simultaneously needs to get off of Steve _right now_ , and needs to stay there forever. “You?”

“Probably be better if I didn’t have all this dead weight on top of me,” Steve says, then pretends to wheeze.

So, of course, Bucky starfishes out, making sure Steve is completely trapped underneath him. “No idea what you could be talkin’ ‘bout,” he says, all feigned innocence.

Steve groans, but doesn’t try to haul Bucky off of him or complain. All he does is say, “I’ll tickle you.” Bucky snorts. “I’m serious. I will.”

“Sure you will,” Bucky says. “Think I’ll just get comfortable first,” he adds, wiggling around a little, shaking his ass and just generally being a nuisance until Steve grunts for real.

Because Bucky’s ass? It’s right on Steve’s dick.

And if Bucky didn’t know better, he would think that Steve is getting a little hard.

(But Bucky knows better.)

“Can’t imagine that’s the most comfortable position in the world,” Steve says, voice hoarse. Bucky wiggles his ass a little more in response. “Alright!” Steve exclaims, reaching up and tickling Bucky’s stomach and sides. Bucky can’t help but yelp, struggling to get off of Steve — though every time he tries, Steve pulls him back down, attacking him with another bout of tickles.

“Steve!” Bucky cries. “Steve! Please! Have mercy!”

“You gonna get off me?” Steve asks, ceasing with the tickles but keeping Bucky down with a gentle hand on his stomach.

Bucky sighs. “No.”

“And why not?” Steve asks.

Bucky’s smile fades, and he’s absurdly glad that Steve can’t see his expression. Bucky shuts his eyes, knowing he’s about to be too honest. “Don’t wanna. If I get off you’ll probably leave, since I’m such a bad host and all.”

“Not at all,” Steve says, voice going quiet, sweet. “I won’t leave, so c’mon Buck. Please?”

Bucky takes a deep breath before he pulls himself up with an exaggerated groan. Once he’s on his feet, he reaches down to help Steve up, blushing when he realizes that Steve is _Captain America_ and really doesn’t need help getting up from the likes of Bucky.

But Steve reaches up and grabs his hand anyway. “Thanks,” he says, hauling himself up — and notably not really using Bucky’s help. “I…”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.

“I’m so glad that you’re my friend, Buck.”

Bucky smiles. “Me too, Steve. Me too.”

**…**

They’re sitting on the couch, dozing off while _Gone with the Wind_ plays softly in the background. It’s not Bucky’s favorite, but it reminds Steve of home and his mom, and Bucky couldn’t say no to Steve’s sad eyes. However, halfway through the movie Steve yawns as Bucky struggles to keep his drooping eyes open. Makes sense — frankly, Bucky’s surprised Steve’s lasted this long without taking a nap, since he, y’know, saved the world today. But neither of them are willing to admit that they’re falling asleep. It’s not until Steve actually sort of tips over that Bucky says, “Alright, Steve. Maybe you need to go to bed.”

“N-no!” Steve says. “I’m awake, I’m fine.”

“Nu-uh, kiddo. You’ve had a long day. You should—“

“Buck,” Steve interrupts, “Don’t make me leave.” His voice is suddenly hoarse, and as soon as he says it, he looks down like he’s feeling ashamed.

“Steve?” Bucky asks.

“I know I’m putting you out, but…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “It’s just the thought of returning to my empty apartment. I can’t do it.” He clenches his eyes tight. “Don’t make me do it.”

Bucky reaches out, grabs Steve’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I would never make you leave. C’mon Steve, you can stay the night, you can stay the week. Hell, you can even stay until my lease is up, but then I’ll have to charge you rent and utilities.”

Steve chuckles, looking at Bucky with watery eyes. “Maybe we can start with tonight and see where it goes.”

“Sure thing, bud. Lemme just put some fresh sheets on the—“

“No Buck, I’ll stay on the couch. I can’t put you out.”

Steve looks at Bucky. Bucky looks at Steve.

And that’s how Bucky ends up in bed next to Steven Grant Rogers, platonic friend and American icon.

“I can—“ Steve starts once they’re there, but Bucky interrupts with a curt, “no.”

Though Bucky can see his point. It’s kind of awkward with both of them crammed on Bucky’s bed. They’re on either side of Bucky’s full-size bed, and while it’s usually more than enough room for Bucky, it’s a little crowded when _Captain America_ is on the other side of the bed. Even though Bucky is taking great pains not to touch Steve, he can feel his warmth radiate through his thin blankets, can smell Bucky’s usual soap on his skin.

It’s distracting, to say the least.

(Bucky is just glad that he’s not in his old apartment with the Murphy bed, because this would be _so much worse_ if there was awkward squeaking any time either of them squirmed.)

He wonders if Steve is feeling similarly distracted. He’s definitely not sleeping, just staring at the ceiling like Bucky is. But unlike Bucky, Steve has real issues that could be keeping him awake, like the fact that he fought actual aliens today. That would probably freak a guy out, and much more than just sleeping by his platonic friend. He probably did that a lot during World War II. (Sleeping by his platonic friends, not fighting aliens. Bucky doesn’t think that the Axis Powers ever recruited Martians, though Captain America came back from the dead, so anything could be possible.)

So Bucky asks, “You freaked out?”

There’s a pause. “About what?”

“Um, aliens?” Steve shrugs. “Is there anythin’ else?”

There’s another pause, so long Bucky isn’t sure whether or not Steve is still awake. Then he says, “I’m just thinking about how it’s going to be tomorrow. There’ll probably be reporters. I don’t really like reporters.”

Bucky… isn’t quite sure what to say.

“Kinda fucked up that America’s celebrity culture is worryin’ you more than, y’know, fightin’ aliens.”

Steve snorts, surprised, and rolls onto his side so that he can look at Bucky. He’s smiling, visible even in the dark. “How do you do it?” he asks.

“Do what?” Bucky respond, brow furrowing.

“Know what to _say_. You talk so easily. I could never do that.”

“Dunno ‘bout that, but I remember seein’ some _great_ videos of you in eighth grade social studies. Somethin’ like ‘each war bond you buy’…” He starts, and Steve groans but finishes with, “Is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun.” Bucky laughs. “See? You know the script, you know what to say.”

Steve keeps smiling, but it changes: it’s smaller, more tender. “Thanks, Buck.”

“No problem.” He pauses, then adds, “And you won’t have to worry about paparazzi here. Not like they’re gonna set up outside some nobody’s apartment hopin’ to catch Captain America.”

“You’re not nobody,” Steve says, fast and almost angry. Then his features soften again and he adds, “And there’s no place Steve Rogers would rather be.”

Bucky smiles. “Night, Steve.”

“Night, Buck.”

And all is well until the nightmares start.

**…**

See, the thing is that Bucky has not actually spent all that much time around traumatized American legends. Shocking. Though, Bucky guesses that he _has_ actually spent a lot of time around Steve, but that was before he knew he was a traumatized American legend. And now? Now it’s three in the morning and Steve is whimpering in his sleep.

“Steve?” he asks, slinking to the edge of his side of the bed.

“Peg?” Steve calls. “Peg, please—“

Bucky scrambles off the bed and flips on the lights. Steve gasps, waking up. “Peg?” he asks again, blinking.

“Nah,” Bucky says, heading to the bed slowly. “Just Buck.”

“Buck?” Steve says, then his eyes widen. “Buck? Jeez, I’m sorry. I’m.” He chokes back a sob. Bucky shuts the lights back off and slips into bed next to him, wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Bucky says. “I used to stay up half the night with my little sister Alice. She saw the movie _The Mummy_ at an impressionable age and kept thinking scarab beetles were gonna climb into her bed and eat her. Would’ve been funny if it weren’t so sad.”

“How old is she?” Steve asks.

“Twenty. She goes to school in Wisconsin. Wants to be a librarian, despite her aversion to _The Mummy_.”

“I haven’t seen it,” Steve says, seeming to catch his breath again.

“You’re not missin’ much.”

“I haven’t asked much about your family.”

“That’s alright.”

There’s a long pause. Bucky just rubs Steve’s shoulders and waits to see if Steve has anything else to say. “It’s because I miss my ma,” Steve says, quiet, after what felt like a long time. Bucky knows that this is something big, something important to Steve.

“Tell me about her?” Bucky asks, just as quiet as Steve.

Steve settles into Bucky’s side. “She was born in Ireland,” he starts, and talks until they both fall back asleep.

**…**

Turns out, Bucky’s prediction about the paparazzi doesn’t come true. In fact, a whole brigade of shouting, obnoxious photographers park themselves outside of Bucky’s apartment, and it’s _the worst_. His phone floods with texts asking Bucky if he’s seen Cap in the building and if he could get his autograph for them. Little do they know that Steve spent the night drooling on Bucky’s pillow and… aggressively spooning him.

He hadn’t really realized it when he woke up. Everything had just felt warm and nice, and Bucky had just laid there, feeling Steve’s warmth on his back, his hot breath on Bucky’s neck, and his heavy arm weighing on Bucky’s side, pulling him close. It had been a while since Bucky had woken up with someone in bed with him, and he’d forgotten just how nice it is.

And then he remembers that his platonic friend Captain America is spooning him, and gets out of bed gracefully. Steve huffs, sighs, and wiggles his way into the middle of the bed. Bucky spends a moment just to look — Steve is _adorable_ being all tuckered out from saving the world.

When he gets enough of an eyeful to smile but not be creepy, Bucky grabs his phone from the bedside table, heads into the other room, and proceeds to answer texts and messages from all the friends expressing their extreme concern for him. As he’s texting Darcy, his phone rings with an unknown Manhattan number. He’s tempted not to take it, thinking about the crowd gathered outside his building. But he also has friends who still aren’t accounted for, who may be using a stranger’s phone to get in touch with him, so he picks up. “Hullo?” he asks, voice gravelly from sleep.

“Good morning Mr. Barnes,” says a tinny, British voice.

“Uh, yeah. Mornin’.” He rubs his eyes, confused. Last time he checked he didn’t have any British friends or relatives. “Who is this?”

“I’m J.A.R.V.I.S., Tony Stark’s artificial intelligence system.”

Somehow, this knowledge doesn’t clear a whole lot up for Bucky.

“Uh, sure you are. Why’re you callin’ me?”

“Mr. Stark would appreciate it if you could let Captain Rogers know that the Avengers require his presence in Manhattan. He seems to have turned off his phone, and Mr. Stark would like to know if he is ready to have a car sent, or if he has his own method of transportation. The coordinates for the meeting spot have already been sent to the GPS in his cellphone.”

“Oh, uh, he’s sleepin’. It’ll, uh…”

“Pardon me, Mr. Barnes, but if I may suggest: you can alert Captain Rogers, and he can call Mr. Stark once he is ready.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Barnes.”

“No, uh, problem.”

He hangs up on the robot and heads into the bedroom. Steve really is still asleep, starfished out across the bed, mouth open, hair messy. Bucky takes a moment just to look, smiling fondly at his friend. He looks really _young_ when he’s sleeping. There’s something unstarched, authentic about him. It’s sort of how he was like last night, with the bubbles.

Bucky blushes.

“Hey Steve,” he calls from the doorway.

Steve pops up, a lick of his hair standing up straight, a snail trail of drool at the corner of his mouth. “Wha…” he starts, squinting as he looks at Bucky.

“Hey sleepyhead. Sorry to wake you, but I think you gotta scoot.”

“Whaddya mean, Buck?” Steve wipes at his eyes, and Bucky smiles as he leans against the doorframe.

“Tony Stark’s robot called me complainin’ that your phone’s off. Apparently the Avengers gotta assemble or somethin’.”

“Oh,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky responds, face falling.

“I’ve gotta have words with Stark. They shouldn’t have known I was here.”

“They keepin’ tabs on you?”

He sighs. “Yes.” Bucky frowns. “Sorry to drag you into this.”

“Don’t get me wrong — I like bein’ here for you, and I ain’t got nothin’ to hide. What I don’t like is how they’re invadin’ your privacy, makin’ you feel so uncomfortable.” He pauses, then adds, “Speakin’ of that, there are a bunch of reporters outside.”

“Wanna moon ‘em with me?” Steve asks, grinning.

Bucky can’t help but smile back. “Can’t. Some of us aren’t American icons and’re headin’ into a competitive job market.

“You saying American icons can’t moon?” Steve asks, eyebrow raised.

“No, just that bearing your genetically enhanced ass to the world won’t get you fired. If I show my pasty white ass, I’ll never get employed. Pictures on the Internet never die, Steve. _Never._ ”

Steve starts laughing, and Bucky joins in. All in all, it’s not a bad morning.

**…**

“So are you seeing a therapist or anything?” Bucky asks over eggs. Steve has enough time for breakfast before he heads to Manhattan to do whatever Avengers business Tony Stark thought was important enough to interrupt Steve’s sleep.

Steve shakes his head. “I saw a SHIELD counselor a few times.” He shrugs. “I think SHIELD was only concerned with whether or not I’d disassociate and have some kind of episode. When they realized that I was… functional, the counseling stopped.”

Bucky frowns, pissed at SHIELD for completely mishandling Steve. You would think that an organization used to dealing with The Weird would know how to handle a veteran, but then again, when has the government done a good job with vets? “I know a guy. He used to date my sister. He works at the VA,” Bucky finds himself saying.

“Army?” Steve asks.

“Air Force,” Bucky responds. He and Sam are still pretty friendly despite Becca dumping him pretty spectacularly a while back. She wanted to move to Oregon and he didn’t, so that was that. (And Bucky didn’t blame him in the least for that decision. He’s east coast or bust.) They mostly interact on Facebook with a like here and there, occasionally a comment, and he has Sam’s phone number.

Steve shrugs. “If you like him, I won’t hold that against him.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and kicks Steve’s shins beneath the table. Because Steve is Captain Fuckin’ America, he doesn’t even flinch. “Anyhow, can I give him a call? Maybe you guys can go for a run or somethin’ since you love that shit.”

“It’s healthy,” Steve says, solemn.

“It _sucks_ ,” Bucky responds, adamant.

Steve chuckles, then looks down at his coffee. “Sure,” he says, quiet, “Couldn’t hurt.”

If Bucky were the Grinch, his heart would have swelled six sizes. Steve isn’t great at asking for help. “I’ll set somethin’ up,” Bucky says, bursting with pride. Steve smiles and kicks at his feet a little underneath the table.

**…**

Bucky watches the Avengers send Loki back to Asgard on TV. He never wants to see Steve’s face look that angry again.

**…**

He texts Sam once the broadcast is over.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**May 26**

**4:10 PM**

Hey Sam! Hope you’re doing ok. This is kind of weird, but could you come to NYC? Captain America fell asleep crying in my bed last night, and I feel like we could use your help.

 

**Sam Wilson**

**May 26**

**4:15 PM**

Hey man, nice to hear from you. Need a little more context about WHAT THE HELL YOU MEAN but I can be there day after tomorrow.

 

Happy with Sam’s answer, he goes about answering the rest of his messages, including sending a video of a baby otter and a new picture of Noodles the cat to Steve, hoping that he’ll smile again.

**…**

“You’re jealous,” Darcy says, candid as always.

“It’s not…” Bucky starts, then breaks off, flustered. “I’m just used to havin’ him around.”

It’s almost frightening how quickly Steve and Sam hit it off. In fact, Bucky will admit that it _is_ scary and he’s almost maybe a little teeny weeny bit jealous.

Almost.

(Except very. He’s very jealous.)

“Aw Buckster, it’ll be okay. Steve is still your fluffy wump, and you’re going to dinner tonight, right?”

Bucky sighs. “I dunno what a fluffy wump is and I’m not gonna ask. But yeah, we’re goin’ to dinner. With Sam.” He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“Be strong,” Darcy says. Bucky rolls his eyes but takes the advice to heart.

**…**

That night Steve, Bucky, and Sam walk out of Steve’s neighborhood deli, Steve and Sam talking about being in the armed forces, Bucky trying not to pout. On the one hand, he’s happy for Steve. Bucky wants him to have other friends. Good friends! But on the other, Bucky isn’t so used to sharing him. It wasn’t until Steve and Sam started hanging out that Bucky realized just how much he and Steve _don’t_ have in common.

“That’s great, man,” Sam says in response to something Bucky wasn’t paying close attention to, “But I think we oughta call it a night.”

“Aw really?” Steve asks. “Nobody wants to grab a beer or something?” Steve looks so cute and hopeful and Bucky is about to say yes when Sam slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Sorry Steve, but we’ve gotta get going.” Steve’s face falls but he keeps a brave little smile on.

“Alright,” he says, “Another night then?”

“Definitely,” Bucky chimes in.

“Night Buck,” Steve says, then, “Night Sam.”

“Come on Bucky,” Sam says, guiding Bucky away. Which is a little weird, but Bucky doesn’t try to question it. Honestly, he’s just sort of tired and peeved, and if Sam wants to walk home with him in an overly familiar way, Bucky isn’t going to fight him.

They walk quietly for a block, Bucky glancing back only twice at Steve’s form, receding into the distance. “Don’t worry,” Sam says as Bucky looks front again. He raises an eyebrow at Sam. “He’s not my type.”

Bucky looks away quickly. “It’s not—“

“Steve said—“ Sam starts, but Bucky interrupts.

“Is it unethical for you to tell me whatever Steve said?” Bucky asks.

Sam chuckles. “We were off the clock. Besides, I’m really just recommending other people for him to see.” He sighs. “Look man, it’s none of my business, but I’m also going back to DC on Friday, so I got nothing to lose. So just go for it, okay? I know things seem complicated, but this thing between the two of you doesn’t have to be.”

“You always speak in platitudes?” Bucky asks.

Sam shrugs. “Only when I have to.”

Somehow, Bucky leaves the counselor feeling _worse_ than he did before.

**…**

The world keeps going. Bucky jumps back into his life — he has to. He still has classes and assignments to finish before his graduation, and his jobs. On top of those, he also has the looming threat of the Real World, and spends an increasing amount of time sending job applications out, praying for some kind of response. (He doesn’t get many responses, but he kind of just hopes that’s because everyone is still dealing with the aftermath of the recent and unexpected alien invasion.)

But things are different now, too.

Steve isn’t just _Steve_ anymore — he’s Captain America, and always has been. While it doesn’t change how Bucky feels about him, the big reveal changes their dynamic, shifting the way they interact with one another. Steve isn’t just some cute guy that a server will slip his number to; now, the server asks for a selfie, or even shoves their phone over at Bucky to take a picture. (Which Bucky does because he’s not an asshole. But by the tenth time it happens, he’s a little less happy about it.)

“Sorry,” Steve says after they walk out of the Pigeon Hole. (Tyler made a move to Starbucks, and Bucky can’t help but feel a little smug about it. Looks like the tea vegan finally sold out.)

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky says, though he sounds pissy to his own ears. It’s just that the Pigeon Hole is _his_ place. He’s been going there for ages. So having an iPhone 4 shoved in his face so that the baristas could gather around Steve to take a group for the Facebook page feels sort of insulting.

“We can—“ Steve starts, but is interrupted.

“Captain Rogers!” A photographer shouts, running down the sidewalk.

“Jeez,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

Steve stops, sighing. He’s not great with the whole modern fame culture crap, and when approached, he tends to stare down photographers and ask them about how they feel about chasing a war veteran around, and what they truly hope to accomplish from it. Honestly, he’s made a few photographers in the three weeks since the Chiaturi attacks look _shameful_ , which seems like a feat.

“You can go, if you’d like,” Steve says, quiet.

Bucky shrugs. “Rather just stick with you.”

“Captain Rogers,” the photographer repeats when he catches up with them. “Do you have a comment on recent speculation that your mother, Sarah Rogers, was a member of a Hydra fringe group in the United States?”

Steve goes stiff. “What?” he grunts out. His eyes narrow and he squares up his shoulders, like he’s getting ready for a fight.

“In 1927, your mother—“

“My mother was no Hydra sympathizer, and that’s all I’ll say about that.” Steve’s nostrils flare. Bucky didn’t see Steve’s nostrils flare when he was sending Loki back to Asgard. Bucky kind of cringes a little, feeling simultaneously awful for Steve and scared for this asshole photographer.

“Captain—“

“C’mon Buck,” Steve says, turning around.

But as Bucky turns to follow, the photographer shoves his way in front of him. As he shouts, “Captain Rogers, if you could just—“ he steps back, knocking Bucky down and elbowing him in the face in the process. Bucky falls, head knocking the pavement. He winces. Absently, he registers the burn of coffee on his leg, and he hears Steve speaking in angry tones and the photographer squeaking out apologies.

Then there’s a big warm hand checking his body, running through his hair. “Hey Buck, I got someone calling an ambulance. Can you talk?”

Bucky groans.

“That’s okay, then,” Steve says. He smiles. “That’s okay. Just stay awake for me, buddy. Can you do that? Stay awake for me?”

Bucky groans again and he stays awake.

**…**

“Stop fussing,” Bucky says, irritated. “It’s a minor concussion, not anythin’ _serious_.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, tucking Bucky in on his couch like he’s an infant. “But…” He trails off, ducking his head.

Bucky sighs. They’ve been dancing around this the past day and a half. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have stopped. I should’ve—“

“He would’ve just followed.”

“But—“

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, “It’s alright. Wasn’t you. I know you didn’t want this.” He chuckles. “I mean, if you wanted to off me I think you could do it a lot more effectively than givin’ me a minor concussion.”

Steve smiles, but it’s his sad smile. Bucky hates the sad smile. “Going in for the long game.” He pauses. “Who knows what it could be next time. It could be something a lot worse than—“

Bucky interrupts him with a groan. “Steve, I’m not supposed to think hard.”

Steve laughs. “Have you ever done that?”

“I’m gettin’ my _master’s_ next week, Steven.” Steve raises an eyebrow and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’m a sucker for bein’ in the program in the first place, but it’s still proof that I got half a brain and an accomplishment.”

“You’re right,” Steve says, expression turning tender. “You’re still okay with me attending the ceremony, right? I understand if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I want you to be there if you don’t mind sittin’ through it.”

“‘Course not. Just don’t want to take the attention away from you on your big day.” Steve raises a hesitant hand, pulls it through Bucky’s hair gently. Bucky stiffens, nervous. Steve just smiles like normal. He’s probably just babying him a little more because of the concussion.

Right?

“My younger sister Alice is gonna be there. She’s such a drama queen and the whole day’ll be ruined when Panera messes up her sandwich order or somethin’ stupid like that. I sorta can’t wait.” Bucky can’t help but smile thinking about his family. They’re flying out from Indiana for the first time in _ages_ , and he can’t wait to see them, and to introduce them to Steve. They’re all gonna get along swell — to use a Steve term — and Bucky already knows that his ma will get one look at Steve and adopt him as a surrogate son. He may try to hide it, but Steve could definitely use someone to baby him a bit, but also kick his ass when he needs it.

“Can’t wait,” Steve says, and Bucky believes him.

**…**

Which is why it sucks when Steve doesn’t show.

“Tall, blond and handsome isn’t here.”

“What?” Bucky asks. He looks around the crowded room, sure that if he just looks hard enough, he’ll see Steve’s big blond head bobbing above the rest of the crowd. Instead, he just sees Darcy’s pitying look. “Maybe he just couldn’t find you all.”

“It was assigned seating, Buckaroo. Just wanted to let you know before the familia shows up.” The underlying ‘because you look like a kicked puppy’ doesn’t need to be said, and Bucky is grateful for that. “Come on in for a hug, Buckster. I’m still real proud of you.” Bucky relents to the hugging. Darcy took the weekend off from her internship and flew to New York; the least he could do is hug her, even if he’s feeling shitty. “Seems like yesterday when you pissed your pants in Mrs. Melnick’s class after she announced a pop spelling bee. Now look at you!” She pulls back, giving him an exaggerated once-over. “A master of the English language. Mrs. Melnick would be so surprised _she’d_ piss herself.”

Bucky laughs. “Jeez Darce,” he says, “You big softie.”

“Not every day your oldest buddy gets himself a hundred-thousand dollar piece of paper.”

Bucky groans. Darcy’s momentary tactfulness couldn’t last forever, but he was hoping it would last until they left the building.

Thankfully, he sees his parents across the room and he smiles. As he waves them over he decides to be happy. Bucky is allowed to have a good time without Steve. Sure, it would have been sweeter with Steve around — because _everything_ is sweeter with Steve around — but Bucky needs to relearn how to have fun without him. Steve’s unreliable; that’s not Bucky’s fault, and it shouldn’t be enough to keep him from enjoying himself.

“Bucky!” Alice shouts, pushing through the crowd. She jumps on him, wrapping her arms around his neck and legs around his torso. He wraps his arms around her and holds tight.

“Hey kiddo,” he says.

She pulls back enough that she can make a face at Bucky. He laughs. “I’m _not_ a kid,” she says.

“Sure you’re not.” She goes back in for the hug as Darcy chuckles beside him.

He’s not alone this weekend — that’s what he should be focusing on, and that’s what’s important.

**…**

The weekend goes by too quickly; before he knows it, Bucky’s at the airport, hugging Darcy goodbye and kissing Alice’s cheek. His mom holds him close and slips a check for $500 into his back pocket.

“Love you,” he says, voice cracking.

“Take care,” she responds. “I’ll call when we get to Indianapolis.”

He watches them go through security and wipes his tears as he heads for work.

**…**

It’s a long shift, though it feels even longer since he went to his manager to ask for more hours. He’s trying to find a job (and even has a few interviews lined up) but until then it’s pretty much the bar or broke. The one highlight of the night was the nice tip he got from a redhead in a leather jacket. She only ordered a vodka martini and just read a book at the end of the bar — a low-maintenance customer who leaves a nice tip behind is Bucky’s favorite kind of customer.

But he’s still feeling emotionally and physically drained by the time he gets to his apartment. When he sees Steve sitting in the hallway next to his apartment, he has half a mind to just walk inside his place and lock the door. Then Steve looks at him, unsure if Bucky will do just that, and Bucky sighs. “Buck—“ Steve starts, but Bucky just shakes his head.

He plops down next to Steve, maybe a little too close, and rests his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. “I should get you a key.”

“Why’s that?” Steve asks.

“So when you come over to apologize you can just let yourself in.”

Steve chuckles. “I really am—“

“ _No_ ,” Bucky interrupts, more forceful, sitting up. “Steve, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Steve looks like he wants to argue — he gets that that angry little line that appears between his eyebrows when he’s feeling especially stubborn and squares his jaw. There’s a moment though, and Steve sags. “Alright,” he says. Bucky nods. “But I have a few things for you,” Steve says, reaching to his other side. He pulls out a bouquet of yellow tulips. They’re a little wilted. “I got them Saturday morning,” he explains as he hands them over.

“They’re great,” Bucky says, smiling. “I like tulips.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, not quite looking at Bucky, “I remember you mentioning that.” He reaches over again, then hands two wrapped presents over to Bucky. One is a little box, about six inches long and two inches deep. The other is pretty obviously a wrapped piece of paper. “Open the box first,” Steve orders.

“Aye aye, Captain.” The wrapping is nice, professional looking: silver paper and a glittery purple bow — NYU colors. Bucky can’t help but smile. It’s such a small detail, but it’s such a Steve thing to think of. He unwraps the box carefully, not so much because he’s not ecstatic about getting a present from Steve and wants to rip the paper off as quickly as possible, but because he knows his neighbors will be pissed if he leaves trash in the hallway. So he unwraps and opens the little box with care and inside there’s a pen.

“It’s traditional for a graduation,” Steve explains as Bucky picks the pen up from its box. Bucky doesn’t know that much about pens, but he’s sure that this is a really nice one. It’s a heavy black pen, sleek with a few gold bands around it. Bucky uncaps it, and there’s a golden nip. “I know most people don’t write with fountain pens anymore, but I thought you may like one for special occasions.”

Bucky recaps the pen carefully, smiles at Steve. “I love it,” he says. “I’m gonna end up writin’ all sorts of snail mail just to get an excuse to use it.”

“Bring it to job interviews — they’ll think it’s very impressive.”

“Sure they will,” Bucky says. “Though I’m not so sure what they’ll think when I get ink all over myself.” Steve laughs as Bucky smiles. “Thanks Steve,” he says.

Steve ducks his head. “No problem at all. There’s the other one, too. It’s…” He shrugs. “You may not like them. I’ll understand if you don’t.”

Bucky picks up the package, pretends to shake it. “Lemme guess: war bonds?”

Steve chuckles, a little nervous-sounding. “Not quite.”

Bucky takes his time opening this package, too. It’s wrapped differently, in purple paper. He doesn’t unwrap carefully because of Mrs. Monahan’s wrath this time, but because he wants to be sure that whatever is inside doesn’t accidentally get ripped.

And when he opens up the gift, he’s glad he was careful. “Steve,” Bucky breathes, “I can’t believe these.”

“Like them?” Steve asks, looking shy.

“Jesus, Steve, of course I do.” In fact, Bucky can’t look away. In his hands are two drawings done in charcoal. The first is of Bucky, candid and smiling in broad lines. It’s nice, but it doesn’t draw his attention in the same way as the second one does. The second piece was drawn from a selfie he and Steve had taken a few weeks before the attack in New York. (Bucky knows this, because it had replaced Noodles the cat as the background of his phone. It was the first not-Noodles photo he had as his background in a long time.) He and Steve are close in the photo and both and both mugging for the camera a little, exaggerated smiles and happiness. Steve’s drawing captures that, but not in photorealism. Rather, there’s a certain style to his work, something quick and curvaceous. It’s simultaneously Modern and Romantic, and Bucky knows that it’s something special.

He finds himself getting a little teary eyed. “Thanks,” he says, voice cracking.

“Anything for you, Buck.” He pauses, then speaks slowly. “I know you don’t want me to apologize for missing the ceremony, so I won’t. But when you need me, I’ll be there, Buck. I promise I’ll be there.” He turns his head so they’re looking at one another. They’re very close, Bucky realizes. Steve’s eyelashes are so long.

There’s a moment of quiet. Someone in the hall plays quiet thumping music, and there’s the faint scratch of moving furniture from up above them.

Steve isn’t moving. Bucky isn’t either.

Then Steve moves back, just an inch or so, andsays, “You’re my best friend.” He says it with a forced smile; it sounds almost like an apology. Bucky swallows, tries to smile, and nods.

“You too,” Bucky says.

“I, uh,” Steve says, looking down to his other side. “I have one last thing for you.” He hands Bucky a thick, cream-colored envelope with his name written on it in black calligraphy. Bucky hopes, vaguely, that it’s not a check as he rips the envelope open. It’s one thing to take money from his mom. It’s completely inappropriate to take money from his… best friend.

But it’s not a check. It’s an invitation.

 

_Mister Tony Stark and Miss Pepper Potts_

_And the Avengers_

_Invite Mister James Buchanan Barnes_

_To the ceremonial opening of_

_Avengers Tower_

_On July first, seven o’clock_

 

“What is this?” Bucky asks, looking up at Steve.

“Tony Stark is repairing his tower and then renaming it. He’s having this party to celebrate. Don’t feel like you have to go, but when Tony asked if there was anyone I wanted to add to the list, you were the person who came to mind.”

“You invited me to a party thrown by Tony Stark?” Bucky clarifies, surprised.

“Yes, but you don’t—“

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, “Of _course_ I’m goin’! Tony Stark throws _legendary_ parties and there’s no way that I’d miss this! Think of the free food, Steve! Think of the _booze_.”

Steve chuckles, smile fond. “I’m happy to see you excited about this.” But then his smile fades into a grimace. “Almost makes me wanna go.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Bucky says, knocking shoulders with Steve. “We can make a night of it. Maybe Stark can get us a limo to get there or somethin’.”

“Jeez Buck, don’t give him any ideas.”

Bucky grins. “You got his number?”

**…**

Except there’s this whole problem, Bucky realizes a day later, that he has nothing to wear to a party that the Secretary of Energy will attend. He needs a tuxedo — he knows that much — but the problem is that tuxedos are _expensive_. He looks at a few rentals, but they make him look like a high school senior headed to prom on a budget. (A budget that he, as a high school graduate, cannot even afford.)

Just as he’s trying to figure out the perfect excuse to get him out of the party, Bucky gets another phone call from Tony Stark’s AI. And the mere fact that he has Tony Stark’s AI programmed in his phone just shows how damn weird his life’s gotten in the past few months.

“Hello?” he answers, still comparing tux prices online.

“Mr. Barnes, good afternoon. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Stark.”

Bucky stops searching, heart suddenly racing. “Is it Steve? Is he alright?” Bucky asks, words tumbling out quick.

“As far as I know, Captain Rogers is perfectly alright.” Bucky breathes again, slumps down in his chair and shuts his eyes. “Mr. Stark asked me to contact you regarding the opening of Avengers Tower.”

Aw, shit. Here’s where he gets his invitation revoked. At least it will save him trying to think up an excuse to tell Steve.

“Sorry I haven’t RSVP’d,” Bucky starts, nervous. “I’m, uh, not entirely sure I can make it.”

“To be blunt, sir, is your reticence due to difficulties in procuring an outfit suitable to the occasion?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks.

Bucky shuts his laptop, then his eyes. “How’d you know?”

“Mr. Stark had a hunch, as it were. Forgive me for being forward, but Mr. Stark has already ordered an outfit suited the occasion in our size.”

“That’s very kind,” Bucky starts, “but I’m sure I can’t afford it.”

“Mr. Stark instructed me to tell you that it is a graduation gift.”

Bucky flops down on the couch. “And how would Mr. Stark know that I graduated anythin’? Does he keep tabs on me?” It would make sense, since he hangs out with Steve, but Bucky hardly thinks that he’s important enough to warrant any real attention from Tony Stark.

Still, there’s almost something exciting about the prospect.

(Until he starts wondering whether or not Tony Stark has access to his browser history because that would be… unfortunate.)

There’s pause, so long that Bucky nearly asks where he’s gone. Then there’s a click and a new voice on the line. “Hullo?”

“Um, hello?” Bucky responds.

“Oh, this is Bucky, right?”

“Yeah, and who’s this?”

The man laughs. “No need to sound so suspicious, Buckster, Buck, Buckaroo. What kind of a name is Bucky, anyway? Don’t answer that. Anyhow, I’m Tony Stark. Iron Man. The greatest inventor and superhero of the age, I wear many hats. And before you try to disagree, by the age I mean the twenty- _first_ century. Your boy can be the greatest hero of the twentieth and I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it. See if I care because I don’t.”

Frankly, _Bucky_ does not care. But he would like Tony Stark — greatest yapper of _any_ age — to slow the fuck down.

“Alright,” Bucky manages to say when Stark takes a breath.

“Anyhow, J.A.R.V.I.S. was saying that perhaps I should explain my gesture of goodwill. So the deal is that I would really like the Avengers to attend the opening of _Avengers Tower_. Since it is, of course, for them. But our good Captain is still a little shy — doesn’t like doing the whole press circuit, wining and dining, all that stuff. Not that I can blame him, but it’s a little inconvenient when we’re trying to build an image.”

“I could’ve told you that much,” Bucky mutters, but Stark steamrolls right over him.

“So I ask him if there’s anyone he likes, anyone who I could invite to make him more comfortable, and he gets a little shy, a little cute — and believe me, I hadn’t thought Captain Big Muscles Tiny Brain could be _cute_ — mentioning you, as if I _didn’t_ already know who you are. Every time we’re together, the good Captain is always running off because he’s afraid you’ve gotten a hangnail since last he left you and are about to perish. It’s sickening, but yeah. It’s adorable. Whatever. All this is to say that I want Cap to be there, and I know he’s a hell of a lot more likely to show if you come, too. So please come to my little party. Pretty please.”

“I was plannin’ on it.”

Then again, this guy is weird. No wonder Steve tries to find excuses to leave when he’s around. Bucky is happy to be Steve’s scapegoat if getting away from Stark is the goal.

“And I thought to myself, ‘Hey, Steve says this kid just got himself a master’s in Comparative Literature, whatever that means. So he’s probably hurting a little monetarily because _Comparative Literature_.’ And since it’s our fault Cap missed your graduation ceremony — which he complained about incessantly, I’ll have you know; who needs to save the _world_ when your boyfriend is getting a hood, right? — I thought I’d give you a little gift. Now, let me say right here that it’s not _actually_ a tux. It’s a suit: very tasteful, very modern. Got a Golden Globes vibe to it. I’ve seen your picture and I’m positive Cap will find you irresistibly dreamy in this number, beside himself about your eyes or something equally as disgusting. J.A.R.V.I.S. is sending you the address of my tailor right now—“ Bucky feels his phone vibrate. “—and he’ll know who you are. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Bucky starts, “How did—“

“That was actually rhetorical,” Stark interrupts. “I have to get going; I’m a very busy man. Anyhow, get to the tailor. I’ll meet you on the first.”

And the line goes dead.

Before checking the address J.A.R.V.I.S. sent him, Bucky shoots Steve a quick text.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

**June 9**

**1:38 PM**

Tony Stark is possibly the most annoying man on earth.

 

Bucky just barely reads over the tailor’s address when he gets Steve’s response:

 

**Steve Rogers**

**June 9**

**1:39 PM**

You’re telling me.

 

Bucky doesn’t respond because he’s half-convinced J.A.R.V.I.S. can read his texts and will report whatever he says back to Stark.

**…**

He doesn’t mean to accept the suit. But after he tries it on, he realizes that Stark really _did_ pick something that suited him: black slacks, shirt, tie with a blue jacket that somehow matches perfectly. He feels grown-up in it, polished. And when he gets a peek at the price, he thinks he should damn well look polished because that’s about three months of his rent.

But it’s not like Stark’s hurting for cash.

And he wants Steve to see him in this. It’s both stupid and stupidly hopeful, but he wants to see Steve’s eyes light up when he sees Bucky from across the room.

When the old tailor suggests he try some onyx cufflinks and leather shoes, Bucky adds them to Stark’s tab.

**…**

Steve’s damn phone won’t stop vibrating.

“Who the hell is messaging you?” Bucky asks between bites of burrito.

They’re eating outside, mostly so Steve can eat in a hat and sunglasses and not feel like an ass. It’s a sort of weak disguise, but it seems to do the trick well enough when they go out together. Must help that Steve’s with Bucky — no one would expect Captain America to grab burritos with an underemployed nobody like Bucky! The thought makes the rice and beans in his mouth go chewy and dry. Steve’s phone going off again distracts him from his own self-loathing long enough to roll his eyes.

“Media, mostly. Seems like every reporter in the country wants an interview.”

“You givin’ any?” Bucky asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Tony is trying to get me to hire someone to handle my public relations, but I’m not sure I want someone giving press releases and choosing who I’ll talk to on my behalf.” He sighs. “But it’s a lot to wade through by myself.”

“If you want some help, lemme know,” Bucky says. “I’m no pro, but I know a bit about big name media. If nothin’ else I can tell you who is a _complete_ asshole, and who’s just an asshole.”

“Really?” Steve asks, perking up and smiling. “I know you’ve been busy, but I’d really appreciate the help.”

“No problem. Probably a lot more fun than makin’ Moscow Mules for Wall Street guys.”

Steve laughs. “Getting a nice poke in the eye sounds better than that.” Bucky forces a smile.

They finish their burritos then head to Steve’s apartment to wade through Steve’s email. Bucky’s eyes go wide — there are _thousands_ of requests, just by email. He doesn’t want to even look at Steve’s voicemail.

“Holy shit,” Bucky says, taking a cursory scroll through the email Stark set up for Steve just for publicity requests. “This is insane.”

“I’ve been a little stressed about it,” Steve admits.

“Yeah, no wonder.” He purses his lips. “We need to make a chart, something to keep track of who emailed when and how we responded.” Steve nods. Bucky cracks his knuckles and creates an Excel spreadsheet.

It’s gonna be a long night.

**…**

They set a few ground rules: no Fox News, no _Drudge Report_ , nothing that will posit Steve as the Great American Hero, and then freak out when Steve goes off about how the New Deal didn’t go far enough and his socialist voting record. Second, nowhere that can’t send a reporter to New York. Steve doesn’t want to travel, and as much as he’d like to make the day of some recent Northwestern grad with a dream doing grunt work at the Columbus Dispatch, he’s not gonna haul ass to Ohio for an interview. And finally, no one who is going to force Steve to be anything he’s not. The latter qualification is a little tougher to ferret out, but Bucky has a decent of idea of who will try to push Steve around, and who will treat him with civility.

“Just because I’m a public figure doesn’t mean my business is public,” Steve explains, quietly. It’s two in the morning, and they’re both feeling a little bad about turning down so many journalists. “I don’t _want_ to do any of this. I had enough of the media frenzy after I took the title. Now I just want to make sure that I’m understood clearly, then left alone.”

“They won’t, Steve. You know that.”

Steve shrugs. “Anything to keep you from getting hurt again,” Steve says, voice somewhere between sad and determined.

Bucky bites his lip. “We should take a break,” he says. “Maybe make some coffee.”

“Sure thing,” Steve says. He reaches out and grabs Bucky’s shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. “Anything else you want?”

Bucky thinks that “you” would be the wrong thing to say in this circumstance, so he asks for some grapes instead.

**…**

They end up agreeing on three media appearances: an interview with Rachel Maddow, a feature in the _New Yorker_ , and — against Bucky’s better judgment but to his intense amusement — an interview with _Mother Jones_. Two print, one live.

But there’s one appearance they’re disagreeing on.

“Steve,” Bucky starts, “I’ve seen your wartime acting. You’re no Clark Gable, but you can definitely take all that gusto, infuse a little sarcasm into it, and do a hell of a job.”

“But it’s _live_ ,” Steve says. “If I mess up… I’ll be a joke.”

Bucky snorts. “Steve, you’re Captain America. You’re already a joke.” Steve grins. Bucky preens for a moment — he and Sam are probably the only two people in this century that could get away with making that joke. “You’re also the scariest dude on the planet. But you _do_ fight in a bright blue onesie. And you don’t actually go in cold: you practice with the cast all week.” He sidles up to Steve. “And they give you a sweet-ass hotel suite for you and your posse that overlooks Central Park for that week. You’re basically the most doted on tourist in New York.”

“Posse?” Steve asks.

“Friends, staff, I dunno.”

“You?” Steve asks, hopeful.

Bucky shrugs. “If you don’t mind bein’ with the likes of me by then.”

Steve looks affronted at the very idea. “Sign me up,” he demands, and that’s how Steve Rogers agrees to hosting the season premiere of _Saturday Night Live_.

**…**

A few days and three unsuccessful job interviews later, Bucky picks up his Tony Stark-approved suit, shaves as close as he can, and puts some product in his hair. If he’s going to appear in gossip rags as “Captain America’s Unknown Friend,” he’s gonna look good doing it.

Also, he’s just gonna look stupid good.

He’s had more than one stupid fantasy about this party, how it’ll be like _Pride & Prejudice_. Violins will swell, everyone’s eyes will sparkle a lot, and Steve will check out his ass in his suit. Then Steve will ask Bucky to dance — the whole room will watch with baited breath as they dance the night away, the party ending only when Steve gets real close, leans in, and asks Bucky if it’d be alright for him to—

Bucky’s phone chimes with a spam email, knocking him out of his stupid Joe Wright-directed fantasies. He sighs, because his life isn’t even a rom-com, let alone an Oscar-nominated period drama. Even if it were a rom-com, he’d have a relatively fulfilling job in publishing or social work that allows him to have a ridiculously nice apartment despite his low salary. He’d also live with a sassy friend who gave him hilarious but poignant dating advice.Maybe Darcy could fit the bill if she would just ditch her odd internship and come back to New York, but that doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon, so he’s on his own.

So Bucky does not have a fulfilling job, a nice apartment, nor an easily reachable sassy friend. But he does have a car waiting for him outside.

It’s not a limousine but he can deal. Steve will be waiting for him when he reaches his destination.

**…**

The party is nothing like what Bucky imagined, but somehow it’s _better_.

Of course, the flashing lights of paparazzi cameras nearly blinded him as he walked out of the car, but as soon as the photographers realized he wasn’t anybody important the flashing stopped and he could walk the red carpet unimpeded. He breezes through the security checkpoint and heads into the ballroom.

It takes his breath away.

Bucky always heard that Tony Stark throws legendary parties full of half-naked women, champagne fountains, and illegal substances, but this is the opposite of that. The room is sparkling, a few bright chandeliers slowly rotate overheard, sending sparkling lights moving through the room. An eight-piece jazz band plays on the side of a large dance floor, couples in tuxedos and gowns swaying with one another to the music. (Bucky does notice, however, a DJ station behind the jazz band, and wonders whether Stark is planning an after party, and whether he and/or Steve will be expected to attend.)

Bucky feels like a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Sure, he looks like he belongs (especially because of the suit), but he doesn’t feel like he does. As he wanders around the room looking for Steve, he hears people talking about “the markets” and foreign investments. One of the men Steve went to dinner with that one time (and who Steve subsequently pissed off) loudly brags to a group about his very successful dinner with Captain Rogers, and assures them of Steve’s support for “Bill 739,” which Bucky does not want to know about. No one talks about whether or not they’ll make rent for next month, or how to properly make a Tom Collins, and Bucky stops in the middle of the crowd, wondering why he’s here, why—

Bucky jumps as a manicured hand touches his shoulder.

“Hey handsome, your boy’s hiding by the bandstand.”

“Huh?” Bucky says, looking over at the human who owns the manicured hand. She is… very, very pretty, and smirking at him.

“You’re Bucky,” she says, and he nods, because yes, it is true that he is Bucky, “And you’re trying to find Steve.” Another astute observation; Bucky nods again. “He’s by the bandstand with Clint. They’re pretending to eat, but they’re really just planning an escape from this party.”

Bucky barks out an unexpected laugh, which makes the woman — Natasha Romanov? He’s, like, ninety percent sure she’s Natasha Romanov — chuckle. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” He pauses, looks at her with a thoughtful eye. She’s got her auburn hair up, a few artful curls hanging down, framing her face. She wears a diamond necklace with matching earrings that are probably worth more than Bucky has made, and will make in his life. Her gown is navy blue, mermaid cut with a strapless bodice. He knows he’s seen her face before on TV (and one adorable selfie on Steve’s phone) but there’s somewhere else he knows her from.

She raises a single eyebrow, as if challenging Bucky to realize it.

“Vodka martini,” he says, everything clicking into place.

She smiles. “You make a good one,” she says.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He doesn’t really know why (well, he does: it’s because he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown), but he adds, “Kinda weird to be on this side of things.”

“I think the people enjoying this party the least are the Avengers themselves. Bruce already left, and I’m betting Clint isn’t far behind.”

“And you?” Bucky asks.

She glances down for a second before looking back up with a smile. “Someone’s gotta be the public face of the Avengers, and I’m not sure anyone else is up to the task.”

“That blows,” he says before internally swearing himself out for saying something so obviously stupid.

She laughs, a real sort of laugh. “It does,” she agrees, regaining her composure just as quick as she lost it. Then she just kind of looks at Bucky, expectant.

“What?” he asks, feeling nervous.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I went to your bar?”

Bucky pauses as a couple shoves their way through the two of them to get to a server carrying a tray of mini beef wellingtons. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, holding back his irritation. When he opens his eyes again he notices Natasha looking at him with this amused little look. “I’m not sure I wanna know,” he says.

“Steve had to stay behind to do paperwork but wanted to check up on you because he missed your graduation. I volunteered for the mission — thought it would fun.”

Man, that should be creepy, right? There’s no reason Bucky should think of Steve, battered and bruised after fighting whatever Classified thing they had to fight and kicking up a fuss because he thought Bucky was miffed. It makes him want to make high-pitched squeaky noises into a pillow, because he’s secretly eleven years-old.

“So did you have fun?” Bucky asks instead of making high-pitched squeaky noises because he is an adult at a fancy adult party, and would probably be escorted out — possibly by an Avenger — if he started making high-pitched squeaky noises in the middle of a crowd.

Natasha nods. “Sure did.” She pauses, looking over Bucky’s shoulder. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” she says with a playful little smile.

“J.A.R.V.I.S. let me know where you two were,” Bucky hears Steve say.

And jeez, speaking of being eleven years-old, he’s suddenly _nervous_. Fantasizing about Steve seeing him in his suit and being overcome is one thing, actually facing the reality that Steve is going to see him and probably _not_ act in the way he wants is a totally different thing.

A possibly not so good thing.

He turns around anyway, because there’s no reason not to. It’s just Steve. Even if he doesn’t fall head over heels in love with the reflection of the candelabras in his eyes, he’s probably going to at least give him a compliment of some kind.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky says, almost a little shy.

“Yeah Buck?” Steve asks.

“Do I look nice?” So he’s fishing for that compliment, but he looks great, damn it, and Steve should recognize that.

And he… actually seems to. He takes Bucky in slowly, gaze starting with his face, then moving down his body and back up. “Wow,” Steve says. “You’re… Just. Wow.”

"First Touches" by [Jessie Lucid](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/post/148740632439/first-touches-by-jessie-lucid-drawing-for-the).

It’s not Joe Wright, but Bucky will take it. “I look like a hundred bucks,” he says with a toothy grin. He hears Natasha snort behind him, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Steve’s face falls suddenly, sending a wave of panic through Bucky. “Buck,” he says seriously, “If you looked like a hundred Bucks you’d definitely need more mirrors around here.”

There’s a beat, then Steve cracks up as Bucky groans. “Not funny,” Bucky says, jokingly punching Steve's arm.

“Nah,” Steve says, then moves in closer. He takes Bucky’s hand and holds it. “You look beautiful,” he says, sincere, and Bucky’s cheeks begin to burn. From anyone else it would sound like a bad line, a stupid way to pick someone up. But the way Steve says it, a sparkle in his eyes as he gives Bucky’s hand a squeeze, makes it seem sincere, special.

“I think that’s my cue,” Natasha says from behind them.

“Sorry,” Steve says, dropping Bucky’s hand and looking to Natasha. “Didn’t mean to ignore you, I just…” Steve trails off, glancing over at Bucky before returning his attention back to Natasha.

“It’s not a problem,” she says, coming closer. She reaches up and kisses Steve’s cheek, just a gentle press that doesn’t even leave a lipstick stain. “You have a nice night, alright?” She pulls away before adding, “Don’t get into too much trouble?”

“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Bucky says.

She nods. “I’ll hold you to it,” she says before heading back into the crowd.

**…**

Steve and Bucky spend most of the party as wall flowers, happy to eat, chat and people watch. They spend some time next to the bandstand with Clint, he and Steve signing as Bucky stuffed his face with free food, but end up walking around a bit, too. Steve tucks himself in close to Bucky’s side to keep people from recognizing and bothering him. “I got enough schmoozing at the beginning of the War to last a lifetime,” Steve explains. “I like action. Wining and dining never came naturally to me.”

Bucky, frankly, is happy to monopolize most of Steve’s time and attention. Adoration for Steve aside, he still has a lingering sense of inferiority as he watches the partygoers walk around in their Ferragamo shoes and check their Rolexes. It feels nice to walk around with Steve, who wasn’t born into this, either. It’s fitting that they spend the night together, looking with wide eyes at this lifestyle they have never been a part of.

Of course everything goes to shit once Steve goes to the bathroom and Bucky is left alone and subsequently ambushed.

“Bucky Barnes?” Tony Stark asks, but doesn’t wait for Bucky to answer before continuing with, “Of course you are. That was a formality. I was right about the suit though — no wonder Cap’s so smitten. Thanks for making him show up, by the way. It would’ve been embarrassing for Cap if he hadn’t shown.” He pauses, looking at Bucky expectantly. “Well?” he prompts.

“Oh, were you done?” Bucky asks, eyebrows raised.

“Sarcasm is unbecoming of a young man, especially one with such an expansive education.”

“Regimes fell, civilizations crumbled, and I thought you wouldn’t quit talkin’.”

Stark rolls his eyes. “And here I was wondering what exactly it was that made Cap imprint on you like a lost depression-era duckling, but I’ve got it now. You’re just as horrible as he is.”

“And you wonder why he didn’t wanna come to your party.”

That stops Stark for just a moment. “Touché. Seems like your liberal arts education made you adequately quippy.”

“Well, they say that the liberal arts teaches a person to think.”

“If the love of my life weren’t an art history major, I may have had something to say about that, but as it stands, I have to stay silent.”

“First time for everything,” Bucky says, solemn.

“You know,” Stark starts, but is interrupted by Steve’s return.

“Tony,” he says, deep-voiced and flat. Honestly, he would sound kind of sexy if Bucky didn’t already know Steve’s voice well enough to know that he’s irritated.

“Captain,” Stark responds, some kind of underlying humor to it. It’s almost like he’s making fun of Steve, which sets Bucky’s heckles on edge. Steve doesn’t seem phased, but Bucky is a little more skeptical of this guy. “I was complimenting your date on the suit I picked out for him. I’m beginning to think I’d make an excellent sugar daddy.”

Bucky tenses, looks down at the ground. It wasn’t that he was trying to keep the fact that Stark bought him the suit a secret, but he also wasn’t planning to tell Steve. There’s nothing inherently wrong about it, but it makes Bucky’s face go warm. He’s embarrassed, plain and simple. He’s embarrassed that he couldn’t afford a suit, and he’s embarrassed that he doesn’t fit in with the rest of Steve’s life. He looks up at Steve, ready to apologize for lying by omission, but Steve starts to speak.

“Tony, if you can’t treat my guest with the respect he deserves, we’ll be leaving,” he says, low but forceful, taking a step closer to Bucky.

“Touchy touchy,” Stark says. “I meant it as a compliment — Bucky boy looks good. Should I have said that I could be a stylist? Would that be more appropriate?”

Steve exhales, put-upon. “That’s fine, Tony.”

Stark turns to Bucky. “Or Cupid, because I’m sure that Cap here will enjoy peeling that ensemble off of you tonight. You’re free to use your floor here, by the way. I’ll have J.A.R.V.I.S. turn off all surveillance — though I’m sure a Captain America sex tape would be a _huge_ seller, so you may contemplate _asking_ J.A.R.V.I.S. to film in high quality; just a very profitable thought. I even thought of your feelings and had Pepper decorate, so the sheets are _not_ red, white and blue. Though you should consider a set of American flag sheets if you are gonna go ahead with that sex tape; it would really add to the aesthetic.”

Steve holds the bridge of his nose, exhausted. “That’s crass, Tony,” he says, “And besides, Bucky and I…We’re not…” He shifts, uncomfortable, inching away from Bucky.

Bucky looks away, forcing a smile. If it looks like he’s disappointed, it’s because he is.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Tony says, then shrugs. “But to each their own. Anyhow, I gotta move on or Pepper will come drag me away — I can already see her heading this way, and while I love her I would like to avoid a lecture. Just wanted to introduce myself to the beau, find out who he is, since I’m sure he’ll be around.” He looks at Bucky. “You know, you’re not too bad. I’m glad Cap found someone with a sense of humor as bad as his.”

“Anythin’s better than yours, apparently,” Bucky shoots back.

“Ouch,” Stark says, grabbing his chest in mock pain. “And here I was trying to compliment you.”

“Fell on deaf ears,” Steve says, then reaches a hand out. “Nice to see you,” he says as they shake. “Thanks for inviting us.”

“Likewise,” Tony responds, then, “And I was serious about staying over. Your place is all furnished, and there’s a closet full of _expertly_ -picked clothing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says, just as Tony flounces off, calling the name of some balding white dude nearby before clapping him on the back.

Steve turns to Bucky, pouts, and says, “I’m very funny.”

Bucky nods, serious. “I know you are.”

“It’s just that Tony, he…” Steve trails off, sighs. “His heart’s in the right place.”

“I’m sure it is,” Bucky agrees, mostly just to placate Steve.

Steve smiles. “Since we’ve seen Tony, you think we could sneak out?” he says with hopeful eyes.

“Think I could,” Bucky says. “But you? Don’t you think everyone in this room wants their photo op?”

Steve sighs. “Nights like these make me wish I could get drunk.”

**…**

They end up taking Tony up on his offer and head up to Steve’s suite in the Tower to escape the party, but not before they smuggle out a few trays of appetizers and a bottle of champagne, though.

“Mr. Barnes, Captain Rogers,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says as they ride the elevator to Steve’s suite, “If you ever need food brought to your quarters, please just ask. It’s not necessary for you to take food from the party.”

“But that’s not nearly as fun,” Steve says, sharing an impish grin with Bucky.

“To each their own, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says, with something like sarcasm.

“Hey J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Bucky asks.

“Yes sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S. responds.

“Can an AI roll its eyes?” Bucky asks. Steve nudges Bucky’s side with his elbow.

“Unfortunately, no,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says, then adds, “But if I could, I assure you that I would be right now.” Both Steve and Bucky double over with laughter, Bucky nearly dropping the silver tray of shrimp puffs he’s carrying.

Moments later, the elevator dings, and J.A.R.V.I.S. announces that they’ve reached Steve’s floor. Steve takes a tentative step out of the elevator, Bucky close behind.

The apartment is what you’d expect from Tony Stark: sleek, modern, and with all the bells and whistles. There is a touchscreen on each wall to control the lighting and temperature — even the fridge has a touch screen for some reason that Bucky doesn’t know. The furniture — minus the humongous TV — is relatively nondescript, mostly in neutral beiges and grey. It seems like the only Steve-specific aspects of the apartment are the framed photographs of Steve and his army buddies scattered around the apartment, a few framed World War II propaganda posters on the walls, and a bookcase filled with World War II and Great Depression-related books and DVDs.

“Wow,” Steve says, setting his trays down on a granite countertop and taking off his shoes. “This is almost as bad as my Brooklyn apartment.”

Bucky snorts, copying Steve’s actions. “That place is downright depressin’,” he says.

“Understatement,” Steve responds, snooping around the living room and kitchen. He opens the door of the chrome fridge and his eyes nearly bulge out when he sees that it’s almost completely full. “Most of this is perishable,” he says, pulling out a plum. He peels the sticker off and takes it to the sink and rinses it off.

“So?” Bucky asks, taking a seat and watching Steve.

Steve shakes his head as he runs the sink. “Stark kept this full even when he didn’t know if I’d be staying. It’s a waste.” He wipes the plum off with a dish towel, opens a few cabinets until he finds a bowl, and hands it over to Bucky.

“For me?” Bucky asks, kind of stupidly.

Steve nods. “Your favorite, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, taking the bowl. “Thanks.”

Steve shrugs, grabs a tray of little crab rangoons, and sits next to Bucky. They eat quietly — or, as quietly as Bucky can be eating a juicy, messy plum, which isn’t all that quiet.

“You think my apartment is depressing?” Steve asks eventually, voice quiet, level.

Bucky shrugs, not entirely sure what the right answer is here. “There’s just not a lotta you in there, if that makes sense.”

Steve nods. “It does,” he responds, before they fall back into an awkward silence. Just as Bucky is ready to start with some stupid smalltalk, Steve continues, “I thought the apartment would be temporary,” he says.

“Like you’d move?” Bucky asks.

“Something like that,” Steve responds. His voice grows even quieter. “I didn’t want to… I just kept what they gave me, tried to convince myself that it was enough. Things had changed and I was the thing out of place, didn’t belong.” Steve isn’t looking at Bucky as he speaks, just stares out into the dull apartment. “I didn’t want much. It didn’t feel real, even after the months they kept me away. I made up my mind that I shouldn’t collect anything.” Bucky’s throat goes a little dry. Steve exhales, looking down. “I don’t know why I never bothered starting. Guess I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be dead.”

Steve’s neutral face falls entirely as he says the last word, flat and unhappy.

“Steve,” Bucky says, soft. He reaches over and takes Steve’s hand in his. Steve starts a little, but before Bucky can pull back, he interlaces their fingers. Bucky isn’t sure what to say. He knows that this admission is important, and that he needs to respond, but he’s not great at this. He doesn’t know what to do.

But Steve needs to know how much Bucky wants him — _needs_ him — here, how much he cares. So he says that: “Steve, you gotta know how happy I am that you’re here, how much I _appreciate_ you bein’ here.” He squeezes Steve’s hand, then smiles at him. “Your birthday’s in a couple days, right? We should go shoppin’ tomorrow, for some stuff for your apartment.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll—“ Steve starts, but Bucky interrupts.

“Then we’ll move the stuff when you move. Or we’ll donate it somewhere and buy you new shit like the wasteful twenty-first guys we are. We could even go apartment shoppin’ if you want, and just get you a new place all together. Just whatever you need to give you a real home, Steve.”

Steve looks at Bucky wide-eyed before his gazes moves down to their intertwined fingers. Under the scrutiny of Steve’s look Bucky itches to move away, but Steve doesn’t let go. If it doesn’t bother Steve, then there’s no reason for Bucky to take his hand away.

“It’s just,” Steve says, pulling Bucky back from his own thoughts, “that I do feel at home when I’m with you, Buck. Doesn’t matter where we are, what the carpet looks like or how many bookcases there are. I just need you.”

Bucky is, admittedly, tearing up. Because, holy shit — that’s just about the nicest, weirdest thing anyone has ever said to him, and it’s coming from Steve. Who he loves. Who Bucky really, _really_ loves, the kind of love where he feels the same: doesn’t matter where they are, what they’re doing. Things just click when he’s around Steve. The bad times don’t seem so awful, the good times are all the better. He’s the boost Bucky needs, the post he leans on. Bucky doesn’t give a shit whether they ever kiss or actually put a name to whatever this is between them, because now they have this moment, this recognition. It’s real, and it’s here, and Bucky wants to keep this feeling with him forever.

“You’re my home, too,” Bucky says, smiling as he wills himself not to cry.

And he thinks to himself that now could be the time. He could lean forward, cup Steve’s jaw with his free hand and whisper, “is this alright?” before pressing a gentle kiss to Steve’s willing lips. He could push himself on top of Steve, running his hands through that yellow hair, then push them beneath his button down. He could finally do those things he’s imagined and he’s hoped for, and he thinks that maybe Steve would let him.

But he doesn’t do any of that.

Instead, he just inches closer, so they’re shoulder-to-shoulder. Bucky takes a deep breath before smiling at Steve, who smiles back. They’re both quiet for just a minute, looking at each other, soaking in the other’s presence. Bucky turns away first, saying, “So your couch is butt-ugly and uncomfortable. We should start there.” And Steve laughs.

Bucky could have pressed it, tried to figure out what exactly their relationship is to each other, and what Steve wants from him. But it wasn’t the right time. Sure, he wants Steve, he dreams of Steve and he _loves_ Steve, but what’s the point of loving Steve if he doesn’t do what’s right for him? If he tries to take a moment that’s already perfect and force it into a certain mould? It’s not worth it.

They have time, Bucky thinks as they search for new lamps online. Steve isn’t going anywhere now that he’s home.

**…**

“I should get a dog,” Steve says as they walk out of Restoration Hardware together. They bought Steve a few overly expensive light fixtures and a globe that opens up to be a bar (which Bucky didn’t know even _existed_ but forced Steve to buy as soon as he saw it). They’ll be delivered to his apartment in a week or so. “I always wanted a dog, but was allergic.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “Any kind in particular?”

Steve shrugs. “Don’t care, really.”

“Just someone fluffy and lovin’ to sleep with you at night?” Bucky asks, teasing.

Steve’s face falls. “Yeah,” he says, looking at Bucky with a strange expression.

“Well, uh,” Bucky starts, just wanting Steve to quit looking at him like that, “I know a nearby shelter. And I follow a buncha breed-specific rescues on Facebook so that my feed isn’t just a bunch of my classmates braggin’ about how successful they are while I remain an underemployed piece of shit.”

“Buck—“ Steve starts, but Bucky waves it away, saying, “I know, I know. Something’ll come along, whatever. Right thing is worth waitin’ for blah blah blah. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a sack of crap right now.” He sighs, feeling almost bad about the outburst.

“Tony mentioned that he has a few openings in his Human Resources department — I could give him your resume.” Bucky levels Steve with a glare. “What?” he asks, looking half-freaked and half-defensive.

“I don’t want a job just because we’re friends, Steve.” He pauses, sighs. “I don’t got much but I still got my dignity.”

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking. “Tony told me to tell you. It’s not like I brought it up or forced the issue.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz you’re so good at not forcin’ issues.” Not looking at whatever glare Steve must be leveling at him, Bucky exhales, frowning. He knocks into Steve a little as they walk. “If I don’t find anythin’ in the next few weeks I’ll send my resume.”

Steve smiles down at him. “If nothing else it’ll let you quit the bar.”

“I guess.” They walk in quiet for a few minutes on the way to another furniture shop, shoulders brushing every so often. “So, the shelter?” Bucky asks.

Steve brightens up. “It couldn’t hurt just to—“

He’s interrupted by his Avengers business phone, a ringtone Bucky now has associated with disappointment, worry, and a distinct lack of Steve in his life.

Bucky sighs as Steve shoots him an apologetic look and picks up. “Rogers,” he says, more stern and low than Bucky is used to. It’s Steve’s Captain America voice, versus his Steve voice. Personally, Bucky prefers the Steve.

(Doesn’t mean he, uh, doesn’t _like_ the Cap voice on occasion, and oh wow, those sinful thoughts gotta go right now.)

They stop as Steve talks to whoever it is on the other line. Bucky can’t know because it’s Classified (though he’s pretty sure it’s either Hill or Fury, because sometimes Steve gets exasperated and says one of their names). Either way, Steve’s heckles aren’t rising, so Bucky can only assume that it’s not Stark on the other end. Even so, Steve is looking annoyed when he hangs up.

“Avengers business?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods. “Car will be here in five.”

Bucky tries to smile, but Steve doesn’t return it. “We can finish this up when you get back.”

“May take a few days.”

Bucky shrugs. “I got nothin’ but time.” Steve nods. Bucky slides into Steve’s side, bumps up against him.

“I’ll stay in touch, if I can.” Steve’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “I’ll miss you.”

“Me too,” Bucky says as a black car pulls up to the curb. “I’m guessin’ this is your ride?”

Steve pulls out his phone to check. “Yup,” he says.

Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s waist and gives him a squeeze. “Good luck,” he says.

Steve looks down at Bucky for a long moment, something determined, fixed in his furrowed brow, his tense expression. “Buck, when I get back I’d like to take you to dinner. On the 4th, if I can, but whenever I get back.”

Bucky can’t help an amused little smile. “Sure?” he says. “No need to be so formal, jeez.”

“No, I…” He pulls away from Bucky, looks him directly in the eyes. Honestly, it’s a little intimidating, but beneath his weird look, Bucky can see something almost nervous in his jaw, worried in his eyes. “I’d like to take you on—“ His phone rings again, and Steve winces before continuing, “To…” He exhales. “To a nice dinner.”

“‘Course,” Bucky says, quieter. He swallows hard.

Steve nods, then pulls Bucky in for a tight hug. Bucky closes his eyes, wraps his arms around Steve, too. But before Bucky can really get into it, Steve is pulling away, heading towards the car. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Bucky runs up to Steve and wraps his arms around Steve’s back. Steve stumbles under his weight — probably more from surprise than actual issues with his weight because his boy is jacked — but laughs. “Buck?” he asks.

“One more,” Bucky says. He doesn’t add the ‘just in case’ that his mind supplies.

“That’s fine,” Steve says, laughing. He doesn’t linger, even if he wants to. When he pulls away, Steve says, “I’ll be fine.”

“You promise?” Bucky responds, smiling.

“Yeah, Buck. I promise.”

**…**

That evening Bucky is in the Pigeon Hole. He knows he shouldn’t be wasting the time or money, but he’s writing something — a book, an actual book — and likes the environment. It keeps him from staying too much in his own head, especially when he’s just a wee bit worried about Steve.

This isn’t the first time he’s been “assembled” since the Battle of New York. But up until now it’s been minor stuff — clean-up, press, one incident with a live shooter in New Jersey (and the still Classified issue that made Steve skip his graduation, but they don’t talk about that). Sure, it’s not stuff Bucky could do, but for Steve it’s old hat. But Bucky can tell that this time is different. He hasn’t heard from Steve in a few hours, and he has no word about where Steve is, what he’s doing, or whether he’s okay, even. He tries to keep calm — for all he knows, Steve could just be at a Tony Stark party and they confiscated his phone.

He sure hopes Steve is at a party.

(Though he does _not_ hope he is at a party with some attractive men/women grinding up on him. So sue him; Bucky wants Steve for himself.

Which just makes Bucky think about the dinner Steve invited him to, which is bad because the last thing he wants is to overthink what all of that meant.)

When Bucky finishes up his small black coffee (decaf, because he doesn’t hate himself) he sighs. If he goes home he’ll just turn on the news and wait for a headline to announce “Captain America Dead at Hands of Mutant Pomeranian” but he doesn’t know where else to go.

After some thought, he decides on the library — he can check out a book (something stupid and frivolous to take his mind off things), turn off his phone and try not to worry. But as he’s packing his stuff up, Tyler walks in.

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, trying to make himself seem invisible. Because he is not a superpowered freak, it does not work. Life is sometimes deeply unfair.

(Though, truth be told? Bucky sees the life Steve has to lead — the spotlight, the expectation, the sheer lack of privacy and, oh yeah, having to fight aliens — and wouldn’t choose it. He knows Steve’s story, his choice, but he can’t help but wonder if he ever regrets it, would trade his strength and time back for the life he would have led if he had stayed small. He and Steve would have never met, if he hadn’t become Captain America. Bucky wonders if that would be something Steve would consider in that decision.)

Unfortunately, Tyler spots him, and starts heading in Bucky’s direction. Before Bucky can think of _anything_ he can do to avoid what he’s expecting to be an incredible awkward encounter, Tyler waves. “Bucky! Hey!” Tyler calls, and Bucky internally admits defeat. He tries not to let it show on his face, because that would be _such_ a jerk move.

He straightens up and plasters on a smile. “Hey Tyler. Nice to see ya, but I was just headin’ out.”

“Not because of me, right?” Tyler asks, half-playful and half-serious, pierced eyebrow raised.

Bucky forces a laugh. “‘Course not!” Which isn’t actually a lie, though Tyler’s arrival sure is making him speed up his departure. “I just finished up my coffee… Was thinkin’ ‘bout headin’ to the library.”

“Oh, that’s so great, I mean, it’s been _forever_ since I just went to the library and just _read_. You know? Like I’d go all the time when I was a kid, but now, wow, I barely go at all.”

Bucky chuckles, trying to think of a way out from this conversation. “Yeah, uh, reading. Who has the time, right?”

“Could I tag along with you?” Tyler asks, all smiles. “Like, ordering my tea will take no time at all, I swear, but now that you mentioned the library I totally can’t get the idea out of my head! Promise I won’t be too annoying or anything!”

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Bucky agrees. “Sure,” he says, trying to look even mildly excited, versus his true feelings of annoyance.

“Super!” Tyler exclaims. “Lemme just go order, what did you call it?” Something a little dark, bitter flashes across Tyler’s features. “Hot leaf juice?”

Bucky forces a chuckle. “Alright.” Tyler heads to the counter to order and Bucky sighs, pulling his phone from his pocket.

Nothing.

He sighs as Tyler makes his way back towards him, cup of tea in hand. “Ready?” Tyler asks.

“‘Course,” Bucky says, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Bucky grabs his bag and follows Tyler out of the Pigeon Hole.

“So how’ve you been?” Tyler asks. “I don’t think we’ve seen each other, well, since, you know.”

“Alright,” Bucky says. The public library is only a few blocks away. Initially, he thought he’d take the bus over to school and use their library, but when Tyler invited himself along he decided against it. “You?”

“Oh, I’ve just been sitting alone in a dark room pining for you.” Bucky’s eyes go wide and Tyler laughs. “Wow, your face! No, no, I’m like, really great. I got back together with my ex, Reggie, and Starbucks is a much worse product, but the benefits are really nice.” They turn a corner, and Tyler slows down a little. “But I really just need to ask, just so I know… Why’d you blow me off like that? I didn’t think we were soulmates or anything, but I had fun and thought you did, too. And you were the one who texted me in the first place.”

“Honestly?” Bucky says, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets, “There’s someone who I have strong feelings for.” Tyler stops walking, just outside an alley. He looks at Bucky like he’s expecting more. “I just asked you out at a bad time.”

“So are you with him? The guy?”

Bucky purses his lips. “I don’t really know. Maybe soon.”

Tyler gives him an unimpressed look. “Sounds like Cap is stringing you along.”

“He’s not…” Bucky starts, then trails off. “I never said,” he starts.

And that’s when he notices the group of people appearing in the alley, dressed in black and looking fierce. Correction: looking fiercely at _Bucky_ with scary murder eyes.

Bucky looks up at Tyler. “We needa—“ he starts, but Tyler interrupts.

“Running will only make things worse.” Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Tyler—“

“Here he is,” Tyler says, and before Bucky really knows what’s happening, everything goes dark.

Meanwhile, his phone chimes with a message from Steve: _False alarm. Heading home soon._

**…**

“Is it kidnappin’ if I’m not a kid?” Bucky asks the annoyingly stoic guard of his cell.

Annoyingly stoic guard says nothing, just ignores Bucky and continues to tap on his iPad.

Bucky sighs.

He’s not very good at being kidnapped, he thinks. It’s been in this cell long enough that he’s pretty sure they’re not gonna kill him for kicks, so at this point it’s just a waiting game. Part of him would really like to see if his annoyingly stoic guard has a breaking point, but it’s probably not a great idea to antagonize him. That being said, Bucky is really _really_ bored.

His cell is a small, grey affair, sort of out of cell central casting. He woke up in his cell and he doesn’t really know where he is, but he gets the feeling that this is an older place, given the metal bars and concrete floors and their poor condition. He also gets the feeling that he’s in Jersey, but that’s really just a guess. Something in the air, maybe? The aesthetic? Everything feels a little sadder here, even for a jail cell.

Annoyingly stoic guard is a little weird-looking, though. He’s got a mohawk and rocks some black leather pants. But what really gets Bucky is the black eyeliner and little round pins on his backpack with phrases like “Fuck Off” and “n00bs.” He’s like, a really muscular, old, creepy scene kid, and Bucky wonders, passingly, if he’s writing Fall Out Boy fanfic on his iPad like it’s 2005. He also wonders if he’ll get a boot in the face if he asks annoyingly stoic guard to play _Our Lawyers Made Us Change the Name of This Song so We Wouldn’t Get Sued_. If Bucky weren’t so worried about keeping his nose relatively in-tact, it may be worth it.

“Any news from the outside?” Bucky asks.

Annoyingly stoic guard says nothing. He doesn’t even look up.

Rude.

Bucky lays down on the cement bench so nicely provided in his cell, using his bunched up jacket beneath his head. It’s chilly, but at this point he’d rather have the meager cushioning. He’s had a massive headache most of the time he’s been in the cell from where they knocked him out, and he’s a little worried to fall asleep in case he has a concussion or they’re going to murder him in his sleep. Or maybe they’re just trying to kill him from boredom. (It may be working.)

Though, he’s pretty sure that death is not imminent. A while back they brought him dinner from Panera Bread. You don’t give ham and swiss on rye with a chocolate chip cookie to someone you’re planning to kill immediately. (For inquiring minds, annoyingly stoic guard got a Mediterranean Chicken Flatbread with a Modern Greek Salad with Quinoa. Annoyingly stoic guard seems to be a man of interesting tastes.)

So he lays and thinks. “You read?” he asks annoyingly stoic guard.

Annoyingly stoic guard doesn’t say anything.

Bucky shuts his eyes and thinks about the book he started writing. It’s a stupid idea, too obviously influenced by his relationship with Steve, but since he started writing he can’t get it out of his head — two boys meet, they fall in love, one gets drafted and the other follows; however, rather than the traditional narrative of death and destruction, at the pivotal moment, they save each other, and they save the country before retiring to a New York suburb and living as happily confirmed bachelors before getting married in 2011.

It’s dumb.

He loves thinking about it; he loves writing it.

So that’s what he thinks about while he waits for something, _anything_ to happen.

**…**

“Get up,” annoyingly stoic guard says.

“So now you’re talkin’ to me?” Bucky asks. Annoyingly stoic guard looks… annoyingly stoic. Bucky thinks he’d be pissed off, too, if something interrupted his bandom fanfic binge in order to get the likes of him to… “What’m I doin’?” Bucky asks.

“Getting up,” annoyingly stoic guard says. “My boss wants to have a chat.”

“Gonna get tea and crumpets?” Bucky asks, deadpan.

Annoyingly stoic guard doesn’t say anything. Bucky isn’t sure what he expected.

But he gets up, thinking that following his wishes would probably be better than getting a punch. Annoyingly stoic guard opens up the cell and grabs Bucky’s elbow a little roughly. “I get that you’re tryin’ to intimidate me and everythin’,” Bucky says, “but I’m comin’ with ya willingly. Ain’t no reason to be so rough.”

“Thought that’s how you like it,” annoyingly stoic guard says, face unassuming, Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline.

Bucky is left almost speechless, stuttering out a quiet, “Not necessarily” and letting annoyingly stoic guard guide him.

They walk through the row of cells and up a staircase. The building looks increasingly modern as they walk, cement stairs giving way to a comfortable tile hallway, obviously recently remodeled. It looks like some kind of government building, art on the walls, IKEA-neutral, color scheme mostly beige and white.

Annoyingly stoic guard pulls him into a room. Upon first glance, it looks like a plain ol’ conference room: long rectangular table, ergonomic wheelie chairs surrounding it. There aren’t any windows, but there is a projection screen on one side of the room, a bad print of a George Bellows painting on the other. (Which he only knows because George Bellows was one of Steve’s favorite artists back in the 40s.)

And sitting at the head of the table in one of those ergonomic wheelie chairs is… Some guy. He’s youngish, kind of boring-looking. He kind of gives the vibe of a background character in an office job or a generic former frat guy — no lines in the movie, but you kind of notice him in a few group scenes. “Ah, James Buchanan Barnes,” he says, emphasizing each syllable with smug intonation. “I’m glad that you could make it!”

“Well, I mean, you kidnapped me, so it’s not like I had much of a choice.”

The man laughs, three large chuckles, punctuated and staccato. “Yes, we had to take certain precautions, but we’re happy that you came along so willingly.”

“You literally knocked me out.”

The man sighs, shakes his head. “Such a shame,” he says. He doesn’t bother to apologize, and that — more than any other aspect of their conversation — bothers Bucky the most. “But now we have to talk about why we’re here, James.” He pauses, looks at Bucky with intense eyes. “Bucky? May I call you Bucky?”

“Uh, sure?”

“Thank you, Bucky. That means… That means a lot to me.” Bucky really wants to take a step back, but annoyingly stoic guard is behind him, and he’s concerned that he’ll knock into him and, like, push him into writing an emo song about it, so he doesn’t. “You’ve met my associate, Reginald.” As if reading Bucky’s mind, the guy gestures to annoyingly stoic guard, who remains… annoyingly stoic. “Though his friends call him Reggie.”

The way that Reginald glares at him makes Bucky think they’re not friends.

And then something clicks.

“Reggie?” Bucky asks. “As in Tyler’s ex?” Reginald’s jaw twitches, and Bucky corrects himself. “Current boyfriend?” Reginald goes back to his typical stoicism, so Bucky assumes that yes, that was the correct answer.

Tyler has _horrible_ taste.

“And I’m Charleston,” bland villain says, punctuated and pointed like he’s desperate for Bucky’s attention.

Bucky turns back to… Charleston. “As in South Carolina?” he asks, kind of incredulous, because parents only name kids after places if they’re really pretentious or their kid was conceived there. Looking at Charleston, Bucky bets it’s both.

Charleston’s face falls. “No,” he says, “as in myself.” There’s an awkward moment of pause, and Bucky notices annoyingly stoic Reginald nodding, as if he digs the groovy suggestion Charleston has going there.

And that is when Bucky realizes that he needs to get out, and like, get out _yesterday_.

“Anyhow,” Charleston continues after the dramatic effect finishes, “I am here as a representative of an organization interested in traditional American values.” _Oh shit_. “And we are extending an exclusive invitation to you. We are eager to have you as a member.”

“Uh,” Bucky starts, trying to convince himself to say something other than the fact that he’s a raging homosexual, because he gets the feeling that may get him killed. Homosexuality and traditional American values don’t typically jive. “I’m not sure you have the right guy.”

Charleston smiles, does his weird staccato laugh thing again. “You’re James Buchanan Barnes, the friend of Captain Rogers, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, tentative.

“The succubus?”

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “What?” he asks.

“He is,” Reginald says, “He spent most of our time downstairs trying to seduce me.”

Bucky turns to Reginald. “What?” he repeats, even more incredulous.

Reginald refuses to look him in the eye. “The incessant talking… I know your tricks. I _read_.”

“Whatever you’re readin’ is fucked up because I was never tryin’ to _seduce_ you.” He doesn’t add, ‘because my heart is singularly devoted to Steve Rogers,’ but he sure is hell thinking it. He is also thinking, 'Wouldn't I be an incubus because I'm a dude?' and ‘I have much better taste than that,’ though maybe he doesn’t, since he did go out with Tyler that one time. Then again, Tyler did lead him to Reginald’s posse of traditional American assholes, so Bucky definitely made the right choice on the Tyler-front. Plus, Reginald is probably _very_ devoted to Thirty Seconds to Mars despite Jared Leto being the mega dick he is.

So Bucky concludes that he does, in fact, have much better taste than Reginald. It’s a small comfort in this trying time.

“It’s alright, Bucky. You can be yourself with us,” Charleston says, which somehow doesn’t make Bucky feel any better. “Since we saw your photos with Captain Rogers, we became very curious about you, and wanted to see if we could reach some sort of an agreement with one another.”

“An agreement about what?” Bucky asks.

“About your services.” Somehow Bucky thinks that Charleston isn’t talking about writing academic essays on Russian literature. “We’d like you to become a member of our organization, or to at least hire you on a contractual basis. Your special abilities could be very useful as a means of persuasion.”

“Hold up,” Bucky says when Charleston pauses. “I dunno what you mean by ‘special abilities.’ I’ve got a master’s in Comparative Literature, but that’s about it.”

Charleston chuckles, but his face falls. “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. We know all about who you are, and what you’ve done.”

“And what have I done?” Bucky asks, because hey. Can’t hurt to know what the assholes who have kidnapped you are accusing you of.

“Seduced Captain Rogers.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” Bucky says, “I didn’t.”

“There’s no reason to lie. You’re amongst friends.”

“I ain’t lyin’,” Bucky says, growing frustrated.

Charleston rolls his eyes. “Listen Bucky, there’s no use denying it. We’ve seen the tabloids, your photo next to his. Not that you’re unattractive by any means, but no _normal_ human could attach themselves to the pinnacle of human excellence, the literal super human, in the way you have. So while I appreciate your desire to keep things discreet, there’s no need to hide yourself here, among your new friends.”

“Listen, Charleston, buddy, I’m not hidin’ a thing. I’m an open book, and this book ain’t about bein’ a succubus.”

Charleston shakes his head slowly, a small smile like he’s humoring Bucky. “I’m sorry, but your powers of persuasion don’t work on me. You see, I have the talisman,” he says, pulling a poorly-made replica of “The Windy” Clow Card from _Cardcaptor Sakura_. He pulls the card out with such dramatic flair that Bucky wonders whether Charleston is planning on sending him to the Shadow Realm.

(Anime humor. Bucky had a phase around age thirteen. Please don’t remind him of it.)

Bucky tries to stifle his chuckle and look scared, but Charleston isn’t quite buying it. He narrows his eyes as he slowly lowers his arm, card held tightly between his fingers. For the first time, Charleston’s composure slips: he’s glaring at Bucky, grimacing.

When he looks at Charleston, Bucky wonders whether Steve has realized he’s been kidnapped. Because Charleston? He’s looking at Bucky with a really strange look in his eye, one that Bucky doesn’t really want to deal with. It’s Steve’s job to save people, right? When is he going to save _Bucky_?

Bucky decides that he should probably play along, at least for now. For his own safety. Also, for a kickass story to tell people if he survives this.

“So I were a succubus — which I’m not sayin’ I am — what exactly would you want me to do?”

All at once, Charleston grins, excited like a schoolboy. (Or like Sakura when she gets a new Clow Card.) “Bucky! Finally! We have so _many_ plans for you. If we could get you to DC, get you the ear of of some influential people, we could spread our ideas with ease. And if they somehow don’t succumb to your seductive whispers, then all we have to do is get a few photographs of the two of you in compromising positions, which we can use to our advantage.”

“So you want me to frame politicians?” Bucky asks.

Charleston pauses, thoughtful. “Convince is our first goal, but if it comes to that, yes.”

(Honestly, it’s a bit tamer than Bucky expected.)

Bucky thinks about the groups of important men who came, how they either ignored him or leered, and how they always gave shitty tips. He remembers the way the one man kept his eyes on Bucky as he dumped out his martini — how powerless Bucky felt watching it happen. Even if Bucky were a succubus — which is still a laughable notion — these are not the people Bucky would want to spend his time with.

He needs to find a way out of this.

“Can I think on this?” Bucky asks. “It’s just a lot to process all at once. Y’know. My secret coming out and all.” (Haha — coming out. Suck it, traditional American values.)

Charleston’s eyes go wide. “So you’re confirming it?” he asks.

“I’m not sayin’ nothin’,” he says, then adds, “Noodles & Company for dinner?”

Charleston laughs. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ll have to go back to your previous accommodations, I’m afraid. I understand that they’re not ideal, but we can’t have you running off when you haven’t yet signed your contract. I hope you understand.”

“Sure,” he says. “But, uh, contract?”

“It’s being drawn up as we speak. Before I can finalize it, however, I wanted to get your assurance that Captain Rogers will be amenable to this plan, as well.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, you’re in complete control of him, aren’t you? As of now he isn’t being cooperative, but—“

“Wait, what?” Bucky asks.

Charleston gives him a close-lipped smile. “Your friend was sent off, wasn’t he?”

“That was you?” Bucky asks, thinking back to Steve’s send-off, the hugs and the promises. Charleston shrugs, still smiling. “If you think for one _second_ I’m signin’ whatever contract you have drawn up while you got Steve, you’ve got another thing comin’.”

“And if you want to see your friend alive, you’ll sign the contract.” Bucky exhales deeply, balls his hands into fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands. “Don’t worry — you can keep him as your little pet, and use him to our advantage when the time comes. Lord knows we don’t want to be responsible for Captain America’s _death_.” Bucky starts shaking, biting down on his bottom lip. “So we’re happy to let you keep him, if nothing else as a token of your powers. Only something base and disgusting could take such a paragon and taint him in the way you have.”

It’s the way he spits out the word “taint” that makes Bucky snap.

Bucky lunges across the table, reaching out to, well, he doesn’t really know he’d do, but he knows it would hurt. Unfortunately, Reginald’s strong arm reaches out and yanks Bucky back. “Taze him,” Charleston says, sounding almost bored. Bucky thrashes around in Reginald’s arms, but after a moment there’s a sharp pain in his side, an electric shock and everything goes dark.

(Again.)

**…**

“Bucky, Buck!” Bucky hears, and it could be Steve’s voice. It could also be a dream. He’s not sure which. Either way, he keeps his eyes closed, because it hurts to open them.

But then there’s a hand on his head and he starts, eyes wide open, flailing, thrashing out, trying to hit whatever he can because everything hurts and he’s not gonna let them hurt him again.

“Buck,” he hears Steve say, “Buck, buddy, it’s me. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Bucky takes a few shallow breaths. “Steve?” he asks, blinking a few times, sight revealing Steve’s blurry form at last.

“Yeah Buck. Hey, it’s good to see you.”

“How’d you—“ Bucky starts, but is cut off by a sharp, stinging pain in his abdomen, and a low groan.

Steve’s face falls. “Buck,” he says, low and serious. “You’re hurt. I need you to stay still, and—“

There’s noise from down the hallway, and Steve straightens. He stands, grabbing his shield from his back. Bucky realizes that he’s never actually seen Steve’s shield before. It’s bigger than it looks in photos, and there’s a startling solidity to it. Steve throws it at something down the hall — Bucky is still on the ground and can’t really focus on anything — and there’s _noise_ when the shield connects with whatever or whoever it is that Steve throws it at, a soft thump, followed the the louder sound of something falling to the floor. The shield comes flying back to Steve, and Bucky can’t help but flinch.

“No, no, Buck,” Steve says, soft. “I’m sorry.” He puts his shield back up on his back; Bucky groans. “We’re gonna get you out of here, ‘kay, Buck?”

“Steve,” Bucky says, reaching out and kind of pawing at Steve’s face.

Steve smiles, says, “I’m gonna pick you up now.”

“Alright,” Bucky says, and his voice sounds rough to his own ears. Steve reaches down, all gentle-like. Bucky leans up the best he can to meet him, but everything is sore and his head is not feeling right at all. Steve lifts him up like he weighs nothing. Bucky clings to Steve, wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist and burying his face in the crook of Steve’s neck.

“Just a few minutes Buck, and we’ll be out of here,” Steve says.

Bucky shuts his eyes, and holds on.

**…**

Once they’re outside, Steve gives him up to a waiting ambulance. “I have a few things I need to do,” he says as he passes Bucky over to a team of paramedics.

“Steve,” Bucky says, knowing he sounds worried and pathetic, eyes wide. A paramedic is saying something to him, but he’s not paying attention.

He doesn’t want Steve to leave.

“It’s alright Buck. I’ve gotta—“

“Don’t leave me,” he croaks, dignity slipping through his fingers. There are other things happening: police and paramedics rush around, sirens wail, people talk, yell. He doesn’t notice much of it, just keeps his eyes on Steve moving closer to him, enveloping him in a hug, foreheads touching. Bucky shuts his eyes, takes a shallow breath.

“You’re safe now,” Steve says, quiet, and Bucky isn’t sure whether he’s reassuring Bucky or himself. They stay like that for a few moments, quietly touching, breathing each other in. Bucky didn’t realize how scared he was until now, when the adrenaline and terror drains from his body, leaving him limp, shaking. Steve whispers sweet things to him, “It’s okay, Buck. You’re okay. You did so well. It’s over now, and you’re okay. I should—“

“Don’t leave,” Bucky begs, again, quieter now.

Steve takes a deep breath, then pulls away. “I won’t be long,” he says. “I’ll see you soon,” he adds with a half-assed smile before jogging away, glancing back once over his shoulder.

Some succubus Bucky is.

**…**

Steve does not visit Bucky in the hospital.

Bucky is going to kick Steve’s ass.

**…**

First thing Bucky does once he’s discharged is have Darcy drive him over to Steve’s place. She’s only a bit miffed that she came to New York to be Bucky’s impromptu chauffeur, but gets caught up in Bucky’s righteous fury. By the time they get to Steve’s building, she’s whooping like she’s at a Mets game. The doorman lets him in, no questions asked — because, not to brag, he’s kind of a regular in Steve’s building — and heads up to Steve’s apartment. He knocks twice, then waits. It only takes Steve a few seconds before he opens the door, Steve looking surprised and nervous when he sees that it’s Bucky on the other side.

“Buck?” he asks.

“Hi Steve,” Bucky says, then asks, “Can I come in?”

“Uh,” Steve starts, which is enough for Bucky to kind of shoulder his way inside of Steve’s apartment.

Or, what used to be Steve’s apartment. Now it’s just a bunch of cardboard boxes.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, turning around to look at Steve as he closes the door. “What is this?”

“I’m moving,” Steve says. He’s too somber for this to be good news.

“To another apartment?” Bucky asks.

Steve doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. “To Washington D.C.”

Bucky looks away from Steve, takes a few steps inside. “What the fuck’s in DC?” he asks, looking around at the boxes.

“Work,” Steve says, “The Triskelion is there.”

Bucky looks back at Steve. “This is why you didn’t come to the hospital?” Steve purses his lips and nods. “How long has this been in the works?” Bucky asks, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Not long,” Steve says. “They asked me a few times to move, but I always said no.”

“Until now?” Bucky asks. Steve nods. “What changed?”

“I don’t really want to go into the details,” Steve says.

“Alright,” Bucky responds, sitting on Steve’s couch. It’s one of the few things left in its original place; some of Steve’s furniture is already gone.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks, taking a few tentative steps towards Bucky.

Bucky looks up at Steve, eyebrows raised. “So now you care?” he asks.

Steve stops walking, looks down like he’s ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Well, looks like you had bigger fish to fry,” Bucky says. He sits there quietly for a moment, just looking around the apartment. It’s always looked awkward, cold, and barren, but there’s something even worse about it all boxed up. They look like tiny graves or something, cardboard monuments to the life Steve had here.

To the life they had together.

“Guess I should go,” Bucky says, standing up, “Since you’re so busy.” He meant for it to sound sarcastic, but he just sounds — and feels — exhausted.

He feels drained, emotionally and physically. All of his anger from earlier just fades into fatigue. Whatever it is that’s going on with Steve doesn’t seem to involve him, and from the way that Steve _hasn’t_ involved him so far, Bucky thinks it’s probably best if it stays that way. No need to carry Bucky as extra baggage to wherever it is that Steve is going.

(D.C.; he’s going to Washington D.C.)

“Bucky?” Steve asks, quiet.

Bucky stands up but doesn’t move away from the couch. “Yeah?” he asks.

“This wasn’t…” Steve trails off, then shakes his head before starting again. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

Bucky looks down, lip twitching with unhappiness. “How did you mean for it to happen then, Steve? You were just gonna call me up from D.C. to let me know? Send me a selfie by the Lincoln Memorial? Or just go silent ‘till I came over lookin’ for you and leave me a note in your empty apartment?” He looks up at Steve, unable to help the way his eyes narrow after his biting words.

Steve flinches, and Bucky can’t help but take a little satisfaction. His words were meant to sting, and they hit his target. “No, none of those,” Steve says, regaining his composure. “You were hurt. I thought it would be better to wait.”

“Ain’t like you wasted time packin’ up.”

“I actually that you could move in here when you got out of the hospital, so I was packing up for that.” His voice is soft by the end, and he’s not meeting Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky shakes his head, incredulous. “What?” he asks.

“I thought it may relieve some of the pressure on you, so that you could—“

“ _No_ ,” Bucky says.

Steve shrinks a little, mouth an unhappy little line. He doesn’t say anything, but his nostrils flare a little, angry. “Why are you being so…” He swallows hard, gesturing up with his hands in frustration.

“Stubborn?” Bucky suggests.

“Sure,” Steve says.

“Because I think you’re lyin’ to me, and tryin’ to buy me off with a fancy apartment, And Steve?” Bucky asks.

“What?”

“You’re a shitty liar.”

Bucky makes his way towards the door after that, maybe not as quickly as he’d go if he hadn’t been tasered the day before, but purposefully.

Just as he’s about to reach the door, Steve reaches for him, grabs his wrist. It’s a soft enough grip that Bucky knows Steve is giving him a choice — he could either shrug him off and leave, or let Steve hold him back.

He turns around, waits to hear Steve out. What can Bucky say? He’s a sucker, especially when it comes to Steve.

“I’m leaving to keep you safe,” Steve says.

“Huh?” is Bucky’s grand response.

“It’s my fault that you were kidnapped,” he says, head drooping, staring at the floor like it’s offended him, “And I didn’t get there quickly enough to keep you from getting hurt.”

Exhaling, Bucky sags. “Steve, it wasn’t your fault.”

Steve looks to the side, shakes his head. “Either way,” he says, avoiding the subject at hand, “I couldn’t live with myself if something else happened to you, Buck. If leaving means that you’re safe, then I’ll leave. It’s as easy as that. Your safety needs to come first, before what I want.”

That is… Something.

And since Bucky is steps away from leaving Steve behind, and Steve is packed up and ready to go, Bucky can ask what that means. It won’t matter, either way.

“And what exactly do you want, Steve?” Bucky asks, quiet, refusing to look away.Steve smiles his sad smile. “Doesn’t matter,” he says.

Bucky exhales, then reaches out and takes Steve’s hand. “It matters to me,” he says. Steve just stares, first at their hands, then back at Bucky’s face. “Personally,” he says, keeping his voice quiet, calm, “I don’t think you should leave. So I got kidnapped once; it’s not the end of the world. I came out okay, and frankly,” he pauses, gives Steve’s hand a squeeze, “everybody’s gotta die sometime, right? Not that I’m aching for death or anythin’, but I don’t think worryin’ I’m gonna get a sprain and leavin’ town is the way to live. Besides, I didn’t ask you to. I don’t want you to. Don’t I get a say when it comes to me?”

There’s a moment between them, a pause where they just look at each other. There’s something about Steve’s expression that’s hard to place: eyes wide and clear, eyebrows just slightly raised, mouth neutral, lips parted just a smidgen.

And then Bucky realizes what his expression is. It’s awe.

They look at one another for a few moments, Steve amazed and Bucky nervous as all hell. He can hear police sirens outside Steve’s apartment, and the buzz of the air conditioner. Steve’s hand is warm in Bucky’s, so warm. It feels like it fits.

Because that’s Bucky and Steve: they fit in one another’s hands like they did on the bus.

“I love you,” Steve says.

(Then immediately blushes, because Steve Rogers is _not_ good with emotions.)

There’s buzzing in Bucky’s ears. “What?” he asks, breathless.

Steve’s features harden up like he’s ready for a fight. “I love you,” he says again, still blushing but firm. It’s almost hilarious, Steve with this stubborn expression as he tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand.

Bucky could pass out.

Steve loves him.

Steve Rogers loves him.

He just said it _out loud_.

Not tolerate; not like; not held in esteem; he said _love_.

A nervous, happy chuckle bubbles out of Bucky, and he starts grinning so wide he thinks his face may crack. “Say it again,” he orders.

Steve rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile starting to break through. “Not if you’re not gonna say it back,” he says, almost sheepish.

“Wow, so immature,” Bucky says, taking a step closer to Steve, bodies flush against one another. Steve doesn’t seem so huge when Bucky is right up against him. “I love you,” he says, quiet, serious as he looks up at Steve. “Don’t move,” he says.

“I won’t,” Steve says, giving Bucky’s hand a squeeze. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

A half-dozen jokes pop into Bucky’s head, but somehow none of them make it out of his mouth. Instead he just nods, eyes trained on Steve’s. Steve moves one hand to Bucky’s cheek, the other to the small of his back. He leans down slowly, thumb stroking Bucky’ cheekbone gently, everything about him radiating warmth and kindness and…

And love.

Bucky smiles into their first kiss, and it feels like coming home.

**…**

“Steve,” Bucky says as they pull apart from their very first kiss.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, eyes still closed, mouth hovering close to Bucky’s.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth since yesterday,” he admits.

Steve pulls back, shaking his head, “Always knew you had a dirty mouth,” he says before erupting into laughter, deep belly laughs that make Bucky bump him with his shoulder, all fake-affronted.

“I was in the _hospital_! I had other stuff on my mind!”

He looks down at Bucky with crinkly, fond eyes. “I’ve got a spare toothbrush,”

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky mumbles.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “but you love me anyway.”

“Sure, sure,” Bucky says, voice so pointedly nonchalant that Steve has to know he’s kidding. “Don’t abuse the privilege — I’m _very_ fickle.”

Steve laughs again, because let’s be real:

Bucky’s been hung up on Steve since they met. There’s no way he’s going now.

**…**

Somehow, Bucky doesn’t wake up when Steve “The Human Octopus” Rogers disentangles himself from Bucky. Rather, he wakes up to an empty bed, which makes him frown. Thankfully, he can hear Steve puttering around the kitchen, so it’s not like Steve has abandoned him in some dramatic fashion, leaving naught but a hand-written note and a whiff of his cologne. Rather, Bucky can sniff the air and smell pancakes, which — if he’s not gonna wake up next to Steve — is a pretty decent alternative.

Bucky rolls out of bed and stretches. He pulls on his boxers from where they dropped the night before, as well as his t-shirt. His arm and shoulder are still feeling pretty tender from being tased, and he winces as he pulls his shirt on — he’ll have to ask Steve if he has some painkillers somewhere in the apartment. Since he makes a living getting beat up by super villains, Steve must have some, right?

He pauses, looking down at his pants on the floor, seeing his iPhone poking out of his pocket. Part of him wants to ignore it, to keep him and Steve in this bubble of happiness that’s just the two of them. But he also knows that he was _in the hospital_ yesterday, and never got in touch with Darcy or anyone else since he went to Steve’s apartment, so he grabs it. He scrolls through his notifications, sends off a few perfunctory “I’m alive and well, will tell you more later” messages to concerned friends and family before checking his email.

And he almost drops the phone once he does.

“Steve!” he shouts, scrambling out of the bedroom.

Steve looks over at him from where he’s standing shirtless at the stove. “What’s wrong?” he asks, pretty face all concerned.

“Look,” he says, shoving the phone into Steve’s face.

Steve flinches back, then takes the phone from Bucky. “Dear Mr. Barnes…” he mutters, reading the first line of the email. His eyes go wide in a second, and Bucky grins, knowing what he’s reading. “Buck,” Steve says, looking up fro the screen. “Congratulations!”

“Did you read the whole thing?” Bucky asks, “‘Cuz you should read the whole thing. The best part isn’t ‘till the end.”

“I’d keep reading if you’d stop talking,” Steve says, still grinning. Bucky rolls his eyes, good-naturedly and watches as Steve goes back to reading.

And then he gets to the part Bucky wanted him to. “The D.C. office?” he asks, eyes going truly wide.

Bucky nods, biting his lip. “Yeah,” he says, “It was one of my first interviews, just after I graduated. Jesus, I thought they were just gonna ghost me, but they’re offerin’ me a _junior editor_ position. I was just goin’ for the editorial internship, and…” He breaks off, grinning, throwing his arms around Steve in a tight embrace.

Steve returns the hug, pulling Bucky even closer, one hand resting on the small of his back, the other cupping the back of his neck. “I’m so proud of you, Buck. So proud.”

Bucky can’t stop smiling. “ _Smithsonian Magazine_ ,” he says, just trying the words out.

They sound good.

“So does this mean we’re both moving to D.C.?” Steve asks.

Bucky looks up at him. “What do you want?” he asks, because he doesn’t want to demand.

“To be where you are,” Steve says, honest and open, eyes shining.

And they’re so excited, just looking at each other and thinking of the possibilities, that neither notice the pancake Steve left on the stove catching on fire.

Steve yelps (which shouldn’t be as funny as it is), Bucky jumps back, and before they know it, the sprinkler system sets off, drenching the entire apartment, as well as Steve and Bucky.

“Fire’s out,” Bucky says when the sprinkler stops, sopping wet.

“Good thing I’m moving,” Steve says, surveying the melting cardboard boxes and waterlogged couch.

Bucky starts laughing. “Yeah,” he says, “It is.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, beginning to laugh, too.

Both laughing — albeit, somewhat hysterically — they plop down together on the soggy couch, Bucky leaning on Steve, Steve wrapping an arm around Bucky.

Sure, he’s sore, and sure, he’s wet, but Bucky is pretty sure he’s never been so happy. He looks at Steve and thinks that he’s happy, too.

**…**

And that’s what he wanted all along, right?

A happy, sappy ending: one that doesn’t end with misery or death, but a new beginning, and a life filled with possibility. The reader can finish reading, dreaming about all of the things that are to _come_ for the characters in the future.They can think about how Steve and Bucky initially got separate apartments in D.C., but how Steve’s clothes and items migrate to Bucky’s place slowly but surely. When Steve brings over his silly globe bar — they’re entertaining Sam and some guys from the VA and Steve thought it would be nice — they concede that they should just find a place with enough space for the two of them.

The reader can imagine the headlines when Steve hosts _SNL_ that fall and comes out as bisexual his opening monologue, causing conservative pundits to flip out, and giving a generation of young people hope. The reader could even imagine Bucky in the audience, beaming with pride, knowing how nervous Steve was before the broadcast, and how proud Bucky is watching him face his fears. (It may be worth thinking about the _SNL_ afterparty, where Steve and Bucky refuse to look at their phones, and choose to do shots with Kate McKinnon instead.)

And if they chose to, the reader can imagine their future: Bucky’s book getting published, Steve’s proposal and their intimate wedding on Martha’s Vineyard, the eleven year-old foster daughter they adopt, and the standard poodle Steve adopts for her in a moment of weakness. (His name is Magnificent — Maggie for short — and he is the apple of everyone’s eye.) The reader could even delve further into the future, thinking about Bucky’s annoyance when he realizes that his hair is growing grey around the temples. He calls Steve over to complain about it, but Steve happily calls him a silver fox and kisses him until he stops thinking about it. Or maybe they think about Steve at their daughter’s wedding, openly weeping as she kisses her bride, thinking about how none of this would be possible if it hadn’t been for that day on the bus, all those years ago.

Still, amazing thing about a happy ending? None of that is set in stone. The reader can decide how they want the story to continue.

But for now? They can just read that happy ending and enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> If this fic sparked your interest, consider following me at [whtaft.tumblr.com](whtaft.tumblr.com), where I sometimes post writing, and oftentimes post complaints about writing.
> 
> Also, I'm starting graduate school on the 15th (the day after I'm posting this) and I'm pretty terrified about it. Any kind words are very appreciated!
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, contemplate reblogging [this graphic](http://whtaft.tumblr.com/post/149968489919/never-talk-to-strangers-or-how-a-forgotten) on Tumblr! 
> 
> Also, now this fic has an accompanying 8tracks playlist! Check out [Songs for Would-Be Succubi](https://8tracks.com/spacemambo/songs-for-would-be-succubi-a-never-talk-to-strangers-playlist)!
> 
> Potential triggers: Steve has a scene where he talks about having had suicidal ideation in the past. Bucky and Steve both eat food and drink alcohol. In one scene, Bucky drinks enough alcohol that he throws up. There is one instance of a homophobic slur. (Please let me know if there is anything I missed and should add to this list!)


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